


The Steward, Son of the King

by Hyrulehearts1123, sageclover61



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abused Faramir, BAMF Faramir, Bookworm Faramir, Boromir Lives, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/M, Faramir is Aragorn's son not Denethor's, Faramir is a very good steward, Faramir is aragorn's son, Faramir-as-Aragorn's Son, Fourth Age, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, King Aragorn, Language, M/M, Minor Gandalf Bashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Lord of the Rings, Post-War of the Ring, Quenya, Rangers, Recovery, Sindarin, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, War of the Ring, Young Faramir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyrulehearts1123/pseuds/Hyrulehearts1123, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageclover61/pseuds/sageclover61
Summary: 18 years before the gathering of the Fellowship, Aragorn was in Gondor. Boromir was almost of age, and Finduilas did something Aragorn would regret for a long time, but he didn't know who it was, and he didn't know the outcome.Faramir, barely 18 and two years shy of his majority, has been trusted with a responsibility he never dreamed could be his. So he does what he does best. He digs into into research just like he always has, and hopes that maybe someone will listen to him this time, about the plights of the people he loves and cares for.The elves are not so blind.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Mablung of Gondor/Damrod (Tolkien)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

_ “That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!” _

Of all the ways Faramir had anticipated the coronation going, he had never, not for a moment, considered the possibility of Aragorn choosing to keep him on. He had supposed he might have to stay around for a little while, since Aragorn had not been anywhere near Gondor in a number of years and might need a hand with the paperwork and understanding the context of the needs of Gondorian people.

He had not considered that Aragorn might want him around in an official capacity, nor had he considered that he would be named Steward, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wanted to be useful, sure, but he didn’t know Aragorn yet.

He knew that Aragorn had the hands of a healer, had saved his life, as well as the lives of Eowyn and Merry from the Black Breath. He had also helped enough for Faramir to be almost convinced that he really did care about the lives of his lessers, which was significantly more than could be said about Denethor, and the people seemed to like that, though it was possible part of that was them supporting his decision to hand over leadership to the finally returned king.

Faramir didn’t know what he wanted. He was still bone achingly exhausted, but there were still so many things that needed to be done. Paperwork, council meetings, more paperwork, rounds within the citadel to make. He also needed to check the castle staff list and pick up more books from the head archivist.

“Should you not be resting?” Beregond asked as they left the sixth level of Minas Tirith for the Houses of Healing.

“There is far too much to be done to warrant any resting,” Faramir responded. He owed Beregond his life, and he was glad that he had been able to convince Aragorn to show him clemency. He could no longer serve as a member of the Citadel Guard, but instead had been appointed captain of the White Company, Faramir’s personal guards.

One of the things on the to do list was for Faramir and Beregond to choose more guards to fill the company, but there were more pressing matters and the Steward was not of the belief that he needed so many guards. The king, on the other hand, was always slipping his guard detail so perhaps he should make some changes to that rotation first.

"How shall it all be completed if you become so weary as to slip into a faint? The king would put you on bedrest and nothing would be accomplished.”

Faramir wondered if the king really would do such a thing, and then decided that perhaps it would be best not to test him. Yet. “Then we shall just have to complete our errands with haste.” They had just arrived at the House of Healing, and so Faramir opened the door and held it for Beregond.

“Lord Steward!” the Warden called, seeing Faramir’s entrance. “Does something ail you?”

Faramir shook his head. “I merely wanted to stop by and see how everyone is recovering. I can show myself around, thank you.” With a single minded determination, he stepped around the warden, and walked around to talk to everyone he knew and meet new people. Beregond even introduced him to a few injured soldiers he couldn’t place.

A few rooms down the back wing, Faramir found two of his rangers talking quietly. “Damrod, Mablung,” he greeted. Damrod was leaning against the wall while Mablung was sitting on the bed in the room. His right leg was in a cast, indicating he’d broken it.

Both rangers turned to look at him, and nodded in deference. “Faramir!” Damrod exclaimed. “How are you doing? Not running yourself ragged in service to the new king, are you?”

Faramir shrugged. “We’ll see.” He turned towards Mablung. “How’s the leg?”

“Just broken. I’ll be just fine in no time. They’re even going to release me today.” He grinned at Damrod. “And then we can go home.”

“That’s great!” He glanced back at Damrod, who was also grinning. And why shouldn’t he be? They were going to be returning to the home they shared, and the war was over, so they could finally have the alone time they’d probably been desiring for weeks.

They’d both served as rangers under Faramir, and the relationship between Mablung and Damrod was hardly a secret, they just didn’t talk about it. And Faramir was honestly happy for them. They’d both been close friends of Boromir’s since before he’d been born, being almost twenty years Boromir’s junior.

He wasn’t even of age yet by the standard of men, and yet he’d already been the captain of the Ithilien rangers for several years, something that never would have happened if Boromir hadn’t wanted him out from under Denethor’s thumb, and for good reason.

For all the good it’d done.

“Have you heard any news about the state of the lower circles?” Damrod asked, drawing Faramir out of his thoughts after sharing a look of concern with Mablung.

Faramir shook his head. He glanced at Beregond, who was standing as inconspicuous as he could in the doorway. It was not a look of distrust, but rather a reminder of the things he still wanted to do before the day was over. “I haven’t heard anything, I intend to go see it for myself later. Have you been down there? How are the people faring?”

“They’re alive,” Damrod said. “There’s going to need to be a lot of construction, a good portion of the outer wall is gone, and of course the houses down there also took significant damage. But the damage wasn't restricted only to the lower circles."

Faramir hadn't supposed that it had been. He knew the enemy had caused enough damage to flood inside the city. They hadn't laid waste to the upper circles, but he knew the lowest ones would not have been so lucky. "And the people who had to relocate?"

There was a sigh from Damrod then. “In the upper circles, overcrowding is a massive issue, and there isn’t enough food to go around comfortably.”

Faramir nodded, knowing how quickly the situation could change. A few days or weeks of smaller meals wouldn’t cause too much harm, but if more access to food and housing wasn’t found, the situation could easily escalate into rioting, increased crime, and even potential murder. It wasn’t anything that anyone would want, and it was something that Faramir needed to prevent, no matter what he had to do.

A few ideas came to mind almost instantly, but none of the solutions were immediate, and while it was a long ways until winter, the food shortage would only get worse because the destruction outside Gondor meant  _ they had no good crop land anymore _ , and it was crop planting time. It would probably take years before the land was restored such that it could produce food. Unless the elves had some ideas? 

Some of the southern lands had longer growing seasons, but it was still early spring, so would any of the lands have started harvesting yet? How much of their stored foods would they be able to sell to Gondor?

He could ask Imrahail first. Dol Amroth’s land had remained healthy through the war, as far as he knew, and would have also had a longer growing season the year before. He could pay for it from his personal vault, but he doubted there could be enough food there to keep everyone in Gondor from starving. If they could just make it to the end of the growing season to when everyone was harvesting their crops.

“-sling, Faramir?”

Faramir shook his and looked back at Mablung, who he was sure had spoken but he had not heard the question. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I was wondering where your sling is, you’re clearly favoring your arm.”

Faramir shrugged. “I gave it away. The warden said I’d only need for a day or two after I was discharged early last week, and my arm is fine.”

Both Mablung and Damrod stared at Faramir with unimpressed expressions. They might have continued with lectures on why he should still be wearing his sling, but their thoughts of doing such were interrupted by the appearance of a newcomer.

“Sire,” Faramir greeted, raising his right arm over his chest and nodding his head in the appropriate sign of deference, though he hid a wince as Mablung’s mention of the lack of a sling had drawn his focus onto his arm such that he felt the pain more than he had in days. He had been entirely able to ignore it before, due to it being a significantly lower threshold of pain than he’d had to suffer through. But no, Mablung just had to remind him to think about it.

“Aragorn, please, Faramir. I was a ranger of the north before I was anybody else.” Aragorn studied Faramir for a moment, then glanced at the two men deeper in the room. It was pretty obvious to him that they were Ithilien Rangers.

Faramir followed where Aragorn was looking. “Aragorn, please meet Damrod, and Mablung,” he introduced, gesturing with his left arm, rather than his right, having learned that lesson already. “They served with me as Ithilien Rangers.”

The two rangers stared at Aragorn and Faramir wondered what they were looking and if they found it. Before he could really wonder what it was they were looking for, his attention was pulled away.

“Faramir, perhaps this could help with the pain in your arm?”

Faramir stared at the sling Aragorn had pulled from apparently nowhere. “I already said I’m fine without that. Perhaps it could go to someone else who needs it more than I do?”

Aragorn stared at him, and so did the rangers (whose displeasure at the statement was a lot more obvious than Aragorn’s, but he knew them well and personally.)

It didn’t take very long for Faramir to give in and tug the sling away from Aragorn with his good arm and then put it on. He was too tired and sore to maintain his position that he didn’t need it because he just didn’t have the energy for it. He also wasn’t sure that he was in any position to resist if Aragorn decided to simply wrangle him into it, and he would have died of embarrassment if he’d done that  _ in front of his rangers. _

He also didn’t know Aragorn well enough yet to know what consequences he might come up with for Faramir’s continued defiance and he wasn’t ready to find out.

Maybe later, when he didn’t feel so  _ exhausted _ .

“I have those crutches-” The Warden walked into the fully occupied room and stared at the those congregated. “I see your anticipated departure has garnered quite a celebration, Mablung. In that case, I think you are quite free to go. I need the room.” He handed the crutches to Damrod, who had walked over to take them so he could walk the crutches over to Malblung so that the warden didn’t have to step between Faramir and Aragorn to get to him.

“Thank you, Warden,” Faramir said, intending to dismiss the warden so they could all  _ leave _ . He still had other people to visit, but he knew that with both the rangers and the king so closely watching him, he would need to do so at another time.

He was also so tired and sore that he did not think he felt like visiting with anyone else in the House of Healing right then.

“Oh, good, Faramir. I see someone replaced your sling. Don’t forget to continue using it as necessary.”

Embarrassed, completely mortified, Faramir left the building, using every ounce of his strength to keep from losing his composure and stomping or storming out. Without paying any attention to anyone else who might be around, he tore his injured arm out of the sling and scrambled up the side of the building to get to the roof.

Reaching the top of the building, designed for climbing by those such as rangers for the sake of getting a clearer picture of the tightly built city, he allowed himself to double over and breathe heavily. His injured arm burned, but the rest of the minor aches from the exertion felt less like aches and more like the good stretch he’d been longing for. He must have gotten soft, if this was all it took to have him breathing hard and aching in all the best ways.

Sighing, he put his arm back in the sling, and surveyed the massive destruction of his city.

* * *

Aragorn, Beregond, and the rangers Faramir had introduced to him as Damrod, and Mablung (who was on crutches), rushed (or rushed as quickly as they were able to  _ on crutches _ ) outside just in time to see Faramir scale his way all the way to the roof of the House of Healing building in under thirty seconds

Several paces in front of the door they had just exited, were Halbarad, and two more rangers Aragorn didn’t know personally, but recognized as Ithilien Rangers.  _ Faramir was popular with the people who knew him, then _ . He’d guessed that to some extent already, what with his clearly being popular with the public who had attended the coronation.

He couldn’t remember whether or not these rangers had been present.

The younger of the two rangers standing next to Halbarad was cursing the valar under his breath, Aragorn recognized that expression rather well. It was one Elrond often wore when he or his foster brothers got into mischief and trouble.

“Aragorn, Sire,” Halbarad said. “Who is that young man who just climbed up onto that roof? Should we go after him and make sure he’s not getting into any trouble?”

The cursing ranger ceased his curses. “That’s Faramir, he does that on occasion.” He looked up, staring directly at Aragorn and giving the king the distinct feeling that the ranger was looking for something specific. With a very calculating stare, the ranger said, “He is also the captain of the Ithilien Rangers these last three years, and Steward of Gondor. I’m Anborn, his deputy.” He motioned to the older ranger standing beside him. “This is Madril.”

Aragorn stared, confused. The Rangers, neither the Northern Rangers nor the Southern Ithilien Rangers, had ever, as far as he knew, held a hierarchy of rank. He’d only heard good things about Faramir, and had only gotten good impressions from him so far, but he wondered at the calculated way the ranger had been specific about the ranks.

Very rarely, he knew of occasions where they allowed a ranger’s child to play captain for a day, and very calculated ways of helping downtrodden rangers feel more comfortable with themselves and the sometimes necessity of giving an order with the title very temporarily.

The Rangers were tight knit groups of people who respected each other in battle, and understood that someone might give a war cry or instruction at any time, and as a valued member of the group, it had to be able to be trusted that their reason for doing that might or would save lives. Some started out as too shy or fearful, and of the belief that even if they gave a shout that would be the difference between life or death, they wouldn’t be listened to. Temporary captaincy was one of the ways to help rectify that.

But why had Faramir needed to hold that honorary title for  _ three years _ ?

“Should I go after him?” Beregond ask. “Am I supposed to?”

There was a very quiet snicker from behind him, and Aragorn shifted to see that there was a politely amused expression on the faces of both Mablung and Damrod. “He’ll be back in an hour or two,” the latter said, “when he’s done surveying the damage to his city, which he hasn’t seen yet.”

“I wouldn’t recommend climbing up there if you never have before,” Mablung suggested. “He’s perfectly safe, and there’s no reason to disturb him.”

Aragorn wondered. From what little he’d heard before engaging the rangers and Faramir in conversation, and from what he was getting now, the rangers seemed protective of Faramir. If he’d been in their company for three years, it stood to reason that they would have formed  _ some  _ bonds, but this seemed like more, somehow. Mablung seemed to have a broken limb, and he wasn’t the one Anborn and Madril had wandered over to worry over.

If anything, they all seemed to be worrying over Faramir as though he were their collective child, rather than merely a ranger of equal standing.

He had assumed that while Faramir looked young, he was at least of age, but now that he was thinking about it, he realized that perhaps he had been mistaken about that. Boromir had not had a little brother when he had been in Gondor twenty years prior, nor had the frail and ethereal Finduilas been pregnant. It mattered little, except to cause him to wonder further about how old Faramir was.

“Aragorn?” Halbarad asked, quietly.

“Was someone going to mention that my steward isn’t of age yet?” It didn’t matter greatly. Denethor was dead, and Boromir was dead, and he trusted his instincts about keeping Faramir close. He hadn’t seen the other’s skills in action yet, but he was sure that there were reasons these rangers trusted him and he wanted to know more about all of it. Yet it was still worth knowing and keeping in mind, because already he’d seen two incidents of Faramir not taking care of himself, in the way young men often thought themselves immortal.

The four Ithilien Rangers stared at each other, but not in shock. It seemed more like they were communicating silently, trying to decide exactly how much information they ought to share.

“He’ll be of age in less than a year and a half,” Anborn said. “No one else is both capable and willing.”

Faramir’s  _ deputy _ . Aragorn considered the word choice again. It didn’t matter that captain was not actually a position in the nonexistent ranger hierarchy. These men cared about Faramir’s welfare, but they cared about more than that. They respected him, and wanted  _ Aragorn  _ to respect him, which suggested that they had seen something specific in Faramir that they wanted  _ him  _ to see too.

He looked up to the top of the House of Healing building, where he could almost see the shadow of the figure at the top. “And what does Faramir want?” Faramir was young enough that the slim possibility of his outliving Aragorn regardless of how much of the Numenorean Bloodline remained in him was possible, but was the teenager  _ prepared  _ to live most of his life serving kings?

Anborn smiled. Aragorn could not tell whether it was because this question pleased him, or a threat. “You would have to ask him.”

* * *

The city was in shambles, and Faramir wanted to cry. The first four circles had all suffered extensive damage, destroyed walls, fallen houses, so much debris and an unknowable quantity of citizens and refugees injured or killed not only by the enemy that had broken down their doors, but just by the fallen infrastructure.

He could see the large crowds of people in the upper circles. There wasn’t enough housing, there wasn’t enough food. They would have to do  _ something  _ or there would be a riot before the day was over. He scanned beyond where the outermost wall had stood. The dead had not finished burning in the Pelennor fields, or pitching tents would have been an option.  _ But where would they have gotten enough tents. _ He turned, but there was no clear, clean, and safe land that they could use. And yet, they could not rebuild the city in a day. It would take months to finish all the renovations that needed to be done.

With a long suffering sigh, he realized it was time to get to work. But first, he needed some books from the archives so he could get some research done. Architecture and farming.

He climbed back down off the roof. Everyone was still standing exactly where they had been. His own rangers, Beregond, Aragorn, and the ranger he didn’t know who was probably Aragorn’s.

“Faramir, do you have any guards besides Beregond yet?” Anborn asked.

The steward stared at Anborn for a moment, then shook his head. He looked around at the four rangers who had always looked out for him. “I was wondering if you four might take rotations?”   
  
They all nodded their various agreements. Aragorn looked uncertain, though he said nothing.

Faramir smirked. “Aragorn, doesn't your guard detail also need some modifications? You slip the guards of the citadel so easily.”

Aragorn glared at him, but did not have the opportunity to speak because the ranger Faramir did not know yet spoke for him. “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Faramir. I’m Halbarad of the northern rangers, and I think I’ll enjoy being on Aragorn’s guard detail.”

“I’m sure you will,” Aragorn grumbled. “Why don’t you rangers turned guards go set up your details while Faramir and I go find something to eat. We’re rangers too, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Beregond looked like he wanted to resist, but the rangers wrangled him into moving in the opposite direction than Aragorn seemed to be leading Faramir.

Faramir was confused about why Aragorn wanted to take him to lunch and why he'd sent his guard and all the rangers away, but you didn't disobey the desire of your superiors.

He didn't aspire to be king, but he had always longed for a day when there would be no superiors. He didn't want to be a leader of a nation or anything, he just wanted to be free to be his own person. He'd considered the option of joining the northern rangers, who had been equals under no ruler, but if Aragorn was a northern ranger and the king of Arnor and Gondor, then it could be expected that they too would acknowledge him as king, and then his running away to them would be treason and they'd kill him or arrest him and… maybe that wasn't so bad of an idea after all.

"Faramir, can you tell me about your rangers?"

Faramir tilted his head. "What do you want to know?" He wondered at the phrasing. Denethor had been persuaded that his appointment as captain had been official, with paperwork to back it up, and he had not been aware of the subterfuge at first, that the rangers had gone out of their way to help him in ways he'd never believed to be possible. But he wasn't really their captain. The position was an honorary one, and it still amazed Faramir how much more the rangers respected him than anyone else ever had.

And now only four remained.

"They seemed to be really familiar with you, more so than three years under your command would suggest. I was simply curious about them. And the rest of the Ithilien Rangers."

Faramir swallowed thickly. "The rest are all dead. Denethor ordered an attack on Osgiliath, and to disobey would have been treason, even if we all knew it was suicide. I asked only for volunteers to accompany me, and they all  _ went _ . Not all the soldiers under my command followed, but all the rangers went." He had asked and begged them to reconsider, but they had insisted that if he was leading the charge,  _ which of course he had no choice in _ , that they would be right there with him.  _ They'd all known it was almost certain death, and they'd been okay with that. _

He sobbed, and Aragorn directed him into a side alley where no one could see them, and he appreciated that, while also wondering if there weren’t other reasons for Aragorn to want no witnesses. But Aragorn didn’t touch him.

“May I hug you?” Aragorn asked after he had been sobbing for several minutes. He wanted to stop and calm down, but he just didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Faramir shrugged. “Yes,” he said after a moment. He wanted, more than anything, for Boromir to be here hugging him, but that wasn’t something he could ever have again. In the end, he decided that the Aragorn hugging him would be okay, and worth the risk of Aragorn just making him think he could be hugged and then not touching him.

But he didn’t have to worry about that for too long, because moments after he’d consented, Aragorn hugged him. It felt nice, but it made him long for Boromir to return. He wanted  _ Boromir  _ to hug him.

It easily took him another ten minutes to calm down enough to stop crying, and Aragorn was still holding him. He flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” Aragorn whispered, pulling away as he must have decided that’s what Faramir needed from him. “They  _ deserve  _ your grief.” He considered Faramir and the young steward wiped his eyes. “How many were there, that didn’t come home?” he asked.

“Thirty,” Faramir mumbled. Thirty brave men, some with families, who they would never see again. He had already gone to each of their next of kin, but what use were tokens and platitudes? Those men were  _ dead _ . He didn’t even think it honest to say they’d died for their city, Denethor’s command had been a  _ waste _ ,  _ and for nothing _ .

You did what your lordship demanded, and if they decided your life had no value, then it had no value.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Aragorn whispered. “I’m sorry so many of your men died on a mission and for a cause that neither they, nor you, agreed with, and I’m so sorry that I was unable to return your brother to you.”

Faramir’s lip quivered. He felt like crying all over again, but he bit his lip to staunch it. With a deep breath, “It’s the consequence of serving Gondor.” He shook his head. “You mentioned lunch?”

Aragorn smiled sadly. “Yes, of course.” He led the way back out of the alley. “I believe there’s a tavern in the 4th circle we should visit.”

Faramir allowed Aragorn to lead him through the rambling paths of the city, and through the guarded gates leading down into the 5th circle, and then further down into the 4th circle. He wondered how Aragorn knew where this tavern was, and how the food shortage Damrod had mentioned had affected it.

They hadn’t made it far into the 4th circle when a gaggle of running kids surrounded Faramir. “Master ranger, master ranger!” they squealed.

Aragorn watched as Faramir greeted each of the children by name. A few of them he asked whether or not they were still sharing a room with someone by another specific. Some of them answered that they were, while a few revealed that they were staying with extended family in other parts of the city, including one little girl whose family of ten was all sharing tight quarters in the third circle.

Once he had ruffled their heads and asked most of them a different question, he pulled out a small coin pouch and shook out it into his hand. Aragorn was just barely able to see that they were silver coins, and he gave one to each of the children. “I think you should each go buy a treat,” he instructed, and with pleased expressions and laughter, most of them ran off to do just that.

One little boy stayed behind, tugging on the hem of Faramir’s tunic. He looked young, no more than seven, at most, and he was almost in tears.

Faramir picked the child up and settled him on his hip. “Hey, Bastion, what’s wrong?”

The child sobbed into Faramir’s tunic. “One of the buildings fell on Mama,” he sobbed. “She was doing so much better, she was supposed to come home. But she, she- The fever killed her.”

There was an epidemic? Of course there was an epidemic. Faramir sighed softly, already knowing Bastion didn’t have any extended family. His parents had come to the city as refugees after the southron armies had burned their farmland, and his father had joined the Ithilien Ranger.

The little boy was an orphan, with no extended family.

“Where’s your father?” Aragorn asked gently.

The little boy sobbed harder, and Faramir glared at the king. “Thirty,” he mouthed. If Aragorn didn’t connect the dots, well, he supposed that would just prove that Aragorn wasn’t worthy of his respect, either. “Let’s get a bowl of something hot into your belly,” he said, poking Bastion’s belly lightly. “What do you say to that?”

“‘M hungry,” the kid whined, appropriately.

“If I remember right, the tavern is this way.” Aragorn had flushed slightly, and looked regretful enough that Faramir decided that Aragorn had understood his mistake.

They found the tavern, but the crowd of people was huge, and there was shouting. It became clear as they stepped closer that the shouting was occuring because  _ there was no food. _ The barkeep was plying everyone with ale, but hungry people were not happy people. Hungry  _ inebriated  _ people, less so.

“Faramir-”

“There’s food at the castle,” Faramir said, interrupting whatever thought the king was about to express, suddenly feeling slightly nauseous. More than anything, he remembered how  _ gluttonous  _ Denethor had been in life. The steward had feasted and the people and starved and he was never going to eat again.

“Faramir,” Aragorn repeated.

Faramir ignored him, choosing instead to shift the weight of the child sitting on his hip, and walked briskly in the direction of the citadel, ignoring Aragorn who had no choice but to follow.

* * *

Aragorn had no choice but to follow Faramir’s fast trek back to the Citadel or be left in the 4th circle. He wished he had more insight to what Faramir was thinking about, because everything he could glean from his steward’s stance was screaming warnings and cause for concern at him.

He could tell that Faramir was horrified at the more obvious notice of the starving city. He was horrified too, but he’d already thought of a few solutions, starting with asking the elven delegation to bring food. It would be no hardship for them to bring what food they could spare. While eavesdropping earlier, he’d also heard Faramir ask the rangers about the welfare of the city, indicating that Faramir had already held care for his people.

Damrod had mentioned a food shortage, he remembered that, so why had Faramir looked even more horrified upon finding that the tavern had no food?

Aragorn was also curious about the child called Bastion. He had followed Faramir’s reference to the number of rangers that had died going against Osgiliath, and that it meant that this child was kin to one of the deceased rangers, but not how or why Faramir had known him, or even the other children that had gathered around him in the middle of the road.

The carefully formulated questions Faramir had posed also fascinated them. All the questions that they would have taken as interest in their lives had also been insight into what was happening in the lower circles. Overcrowding, starvation, poor treatment of those had sought refuge in the upper circles, among other things. Apparently including epidemic of illness, unless Bastion’s mother had succumbed to infection of her injuries.

Why had a building fallen on her?

The guards of the citadel standing at the entrance into the citadel, the seventh circle, nodded as they passed.

“Will Beregond and the rangers know that we’ve returned to the castle?” Aragorn asked.

“Perhaps.”

They entered the castle, and then Faramir led the way to his destination. Aragorn could guess where they were going, and he wondered what Faramir was expecting to find.

Pippin had spoken to him at length about how well the former steward had eaten while he was here, though Aragorn was uncertain that the young hobbit would have any knowledge of how the lower circles fared.

Aragorn could not think of any similarities between Faramir and Denethor, so different were they. Even the resemblance to Boromir was only a little more than passing, but he had seen how Faramir had reacted to hearing of his brother. Despite the fact that Boromir had been of age when Faramir had been born, it was clear that they had been incredibly close.

Faramir tore into the kitchen, and with the busy staff insisting otherwise, he opened the pantry doors with such abruptness that Aragorn feared he’d tear the door off its hinges.

The pantry was full, overflowing, and he could already see that Faramir was instants away from retching at the sight.

Aragorn eased the child out of Faramir’s arms and set him atop one of the tables, to the casternation of the maid. “Someone please fetch a meal for this child,” he ordered. The staff looked put out, but proceeded to follow it. He could see some desire to disobey, but there was no refusal or word against it, which allowed him to get some possible further insight about the methods Denethor had used.

For the moment, he didn’t care, because with the child suitably entertained for the time being, he could calm his current steward before the teenager could complete whatever rash plan was already written all over his face. “Faramir,” he said. Unlike the tone he used earlier and allowed Faramir to ignore, this tone was firmer enough with the intent of getting his attention.

It worked, as it had Faramir looking in his direction, gray eyes blazing in righteous fury. Aragorn was pretty sure he knew what he was thinking, but Faramir didn’t speak.

Aragorn was sure that Faramir was thinking of all the reasons he might be stopping the steward from the plan he’d already formed, and possibly comparing him to Denethor for it, and almost wished that Faramir  _ would  _ speak his mind. He wasn’t Denethor, and he already had no intention of following the obviously corrupt methods of the stewards in the past, and wouldn’t be able to put Faramir’s concerns to rest if he didn’t mention them.

And yet, maybe Faramir’s shocked expression when he’d returned the position to him in front of everyone should have been most explanative.

“I think we should discuss the entire variety of options for ways to distribute this food before you run off to find wagons,” Aragorn said, simply. “While that is a valid option, I’m not sure that it ensures the fairest distribution.”

Faramir blinked. “I had been considering the wagon idea,” he admitted. “Yet it doesn’t address the housing situation, either.”

Aragorn hid a smirk. Faramir had used the second problem that might lead to riots as an implication for why the exampled solution wouldn’t work as a way to indicate what the chosen option  _ should  _ encompass. Which meant there was really only one solution, but had Faramir considered it yet?   
  
“How many people live inside the citadel?” he asked. The citadel contained the castle, the barracks for the guards of the citadel, and possibly some unconnected facilities.

“There are no visiting dignitaries right now, so just the courtiers, staff who live in the staff quarters, the citadel guards who live in the barracks, and the two of you,” the staff answered. “The council members all own houses in the 5th circle.”

To Aragorn, that begged the question as to why they even needed a castle, but since it was four stories tall and both the steward’s quarters and the king’s wing were on the fourth floor, he decided not to worry about it yet.

“Faramir, would opening the castle and the grounds to those in need of refuge, and providing them with food here, be a solution to both the problems of feeding the people and providing them shelter? I trained under Elrond as a healer, sheltering the injured the sick in one of the wings of the castle would allow me a better opportunity to tend to them. The healers at the house of healing are doing what they can, I know, but there’s more people in need of aid than they can be expected to help.”

Faramir almost smiled. “With priority of shelter going next to the elderly, and then to women and children? We can have the rooms arranged as dormitories, and set up tents or temporary shelters in the courtyard for everyone else. There’s some incredibly large cauldrons around here somewhere, we should be able to feed everyone for at least a few weeks on soup, casseroles, and bread.”

Aragorn nodded. He wasn’t sure that the current food supplies would really last that long, but he also knew it would not take more than a few weeks for the Elves to begin arriving, and they could always trade with the regions around them for more food. “Shall we go let the staff know what we need to help the people?”


	2. Chapter 2

That evening found the largest gathering in the citadel that anyone could remember. The first two floors of the castle had been swiftly transformed into basic dormitories, each room holding between four and six individuals, depending on the size. Tents and lanterns littered the front courtyard and the back gardens to ensure that all the refugees had shelter.

All the largest cauldrons in the city had been called for, and women had spent the entire day making all the watered down soup that they could. No one had gone hungry, no food had gone to waste, and they had not even used a fraction of the ingredients Denethor’s pantry had offered.

Faramir had retired for the evening, three rangers in toe. Aragorn had not seen him eat anything for lunch or supper, and promised to himself to take him breakfast in the morning to assure himself that the teen ate. There was no need for Faramir to forgo eating, it wouldn’t ensure no one starved, and he needed Faramir at his best.

“You need not have done this,” the councilman who had engaged him in conversation was saying. “The people would have been fine. The plebians are resourceful, and giving them so much charity only makes them soft and determined to steal more of our time and our own resources.”

“Anyone going hungry or unsheltered from the weather is a failure on our part to look after our people,” Aragorn stated. “An end to the war is also supposed to be an end to any of their suffering because of it, and there are more of them than there are of you.”

The council member might have continued arguing about the propriety of Aragorn’s actions, but he was interrupted by a lithe and ethereal form flinging herself into Aragorn’s embrace, and kissing his cheeks.

“Arwen,” he breathed, grasping her hands and studying her face before kissing her mouth. When he pulled away, he said, “I wasn’t expecting you to come for weeks.”

“Elladan and Elrohir returned home straight away after the ring was destroyed, and I wanted to be here.” She smiled at him. “All the way through the city, we were hearing how excited people are about your actions in helping the starving and homeless refugees.”

“It was Faramir’s idea first,” Aragorn said.

“Your Steward, right? I’d love to meet him.”

Aragorn smiled, before considering his current options. Faramir had retired to his chambers nearly an hour ago, so it was likely that he would still be awake, but could he truly disturb what was likely the first moment of peace all day? And if he was asleep, he wouldn’t bear to wake him. He’d been working so hard ever since he had been released from the Houses of Healing, and he deserved as much rest as possible.

But, the way to his own quarters passed nearby to the wing where he had noticed Faramir and his escorts heading, so maybe they could walk that way, and see what the options were? “He retired a short while ago, but we could see if he would be willing to meet you?”

“I would love to,” Arwen reached to press a kiss to Aragorn’s cheek, nodding softly. “Anything to meet the one who has helped you so greatly through this transition.”

Aragorn sighed softly, not commenting on Arwen’s little jab, but acknowledging it all the same. “Shall we go?”

She nodded, so Aragorn led the way into the castle. The first floor and the second had been set aside for the refugees, but there were guards around the castle to make sure that everyone stayed safe and that no one wandered off where they weren’t supposed to go.

There were other more direct ways to the king’s chambers, but since the intention was to find Faramir’s chambers, which he knew were on the 4th floor but not beyond that, they took a different staircase.

All the guards they passed nodded at them, but no one spoke.

There was a large door not far from the staircase. It was ornate, but significantly less ornate than the similar large door leading into the King’s Living Chambers, and he remembered from his previous visit to Gondor that these had been the Steward’s Living Chambers and that they had been occupied by Denethor up until his death, and he wondered if Faramir had taken up residence inside them. But there was no guard, or pair of guards, outside the door, which suggested there was no one inside.

Maybe that was for the best. He didn’t know exactly what relationship Faramir and Denethor had shared, but what little he knew suggested that it hadn’t been a very good one. He’d heard that much from Pippin and Gandalf, and Denethor’s attempt at burning Faramir alive hadn’t gone unmentioned, either.

“Is this the door to Faramir’s chambers?” Arwen asked, reaching for the doorknob.

Aragorn doubted that the overly protective rangers he had seen follow Faramir inside the building would be okay leaving the door to his rooms completely unguarded and decided that he was probably elsewhere on the floor, but he was hardly going to stop Arwen from exploring, even if they probably should have been leaving it to the privacy of whomever it belonged to,  _ probably Faramir _ .

He followed his betrothed inside anyway, because he really was curious about how Denethor had lived. 

If the state of the pantry had come as a surprise, this was even more so. The pantry had indicated that Denethor had been avaricious and probably corrupt, but this only confirmed it. There were things everything. Racks and racks of heavy and expensive leather and fur coats in various cuts and styles, as well as lavish bear and wolf rugs on the floor.

The room had a fireplace, and there was a velvet chaise in the middle of the room, with a table in front of it. The table was low to the ground and long, and the wear of it indicated that it often supported weight beyond its capacity.

There was a door into another, smaller room, which they entered. There were furs on the floor of this room as well, along with a large four poster bed that also had many furs on it. Hanging over the bed were thick velvet curtains in a dark maroon, and the large window was affixed with elaborate black drapes.

There was a fireplace in this room as well, along with wall sconces made of gold.

At the foot of the bed, laid a large mahogany chest with a leather and bronze clasping that had been locked. The keyhole indicated that the key had been quite large, but not one that appeared to be in the room.

“Faramir is not here,” Aragorn said quietly, when it seemed that Arwen might try to unfasten the lock of the chest. “As Denethor’s next of kin, it will fall to him to determine what becomes of these things.”

Arwen returned to his side and took his hand. “There is something I would tell you,” she said. “But I would tell you later, Estel.”

“Anything you wish,” he replied, kissing her forehead. “Shall we see if we cannot find where my young Steward takes his rest?”

She nodded, so they left the Steward's Living Chambers, and walked down the hallway. The King’s Living Chambers were at the very far end of the hallway, but Aragorn assumed that if the servants would suggest that Faramir lived on this floor, that they would find it, thought the possibility of Faramir having chosen another place to sleep was not impossible, as was the possibility that he wasn’t in the castle.

He needn’t have worried. About halfway down the hallway, Beregond was standing beside a door.

“Sire,” Beregond greeted, bowing his head formally. “My lady,” he added, addressing Arwen.

“I would like to introduce Arwen to my Steward, may we step inside?”

Beregond nodded. “They returned from the archives about half an hour ago, arms laden with books. You may try to draw them away if you wish.”

Arwen thanked the captain of Faramir’s guard while Aragorn proceeded to open the door quietly. He was curious to see how the rangers would react. Faramir knew them already and trusted them with his life, but Aragorn didn’t know them yet.

He didn't really know Faramir yet, either. It was something he sought to change, in the coming weeks, but he could only hope that Faramir would be willing to know him as well.

There were three rangers in equally strategic places around the room, though they were all staring at the door. Whether they had heard his and Beregond’s voices from outside the room, or if they had only moved as soon as the door started moving, he couldn’t be certain.

Faramir was sleeping. Or at least, he  _ hoped  _ Faramir was sleeping. The two other options were significantly less appealing, when he had seen in Faramir’s entire composure earlier just how exhausted he was. The third option, of course, was that the rangers had murdered Faramir, except a moment after that he saw that Faramir was in fact still breathing, so his worst fear could be easily laid to rest.

All the rangers were near a tall pile of books, with an open book in hand. Anborn was standing near the balcony, Damrod was standing a few feet away from the door, and Madril was lying on top of the covers next to Faramir, who in sleep seemed to have snuggled into the elder ranger.

Faramir’s boots were on the ground by the bed, but other than that, he was still wearing the clothing he had likely worn to the archives. He was also wearing his sling.

“He really should have taken his sling off,” Arwen mumbled beside him.

“He was already asleep by the time we thought about it,” Anborn spoke quietly, voice carrying across the room as he turned the page of his book. “He’s always been the type of lad that you need to leave where he happens to rest, or he won’t sleep again until the next night.”

Aragorn could see Arwen nodding softly, before smiling gently at the rangers. “I know of another who was the same in his youth. With your allowance, perhaps I could try to help?”

The rangers cast glances at one another, communicating once more in that unspoken way they seemed to favor. Aragorn knew now that it seemed to happen most often when regarding Faramir, but for what reason? Here in his room, surrounded by rangers, he was as safe as could be. Unless they doubted their own ability to protect him, there should be no reason for them to be so concerned.

Eventually though, Madril sighed, nodding softly. “Alright, you can give it a try. But I tell you to stop, and that’s it. No more trying.”

Arwen nodded her assent and walked towards the bed.

Aragorn noticed how all three of the rangers were watching Arwen with varying amounts of subtlety, and then it dawned on Aragorn exactly what was going on.

The rangers didn’t know him, or Arwen, the same as how he didn’t know the rangers, nor did he really know Faramir either, though he really did hope to rectify that. He trusted his gut, had learned to trust it, and everything screamed that he needed Faramir.

Every so slowly, Arwen undid the ties of the sling. She worked silently, but he could almost hear her humming to herself, or to Faramir. Probably something from her childhood, or something she had sung to the little elflings.

The sling freed Faramir’s arm, and the teenager did not so much as stir.

Arwen stood, and nodded to each of the rangers. “Thank you for trusting me to help.” She returned to Aragorn’s side. “I’d love to see our quarters next,” she said. “But perhaps we might all eat a late brunch in the morning?”

“We’re eating with the rest of the fellowship in the morning, and I already invited Faramir to join us, if he’s awake and unoccupied. We’ll be eating in the large chamber on the third floor.”

“Of course.” She led the way towards the door.

“Goodnight,” Aragorn said, and then they left the chambers.

“Did you see what books they were reading?” Arwen asked once they were out of earshot of Beregond.

Aragorn shook his head. “I did not. But I couldn’t help but notice that there was one last pile of books on Faramir’s nightstand.”

“All the books in their obvious piles for tonight were on agriculture and architecture.”

“Gondor’s most immediate problems.” They had to feed and house the masses, and it did not surprise him at all that Faramir had raided the archives for everything he could find on the matter. What had surprised him, however, was how quickly it seemed that Faramir had fallen asleep, leaving his rangers to read in his stead. Faramir didn’t seem to be the kind to leave others to do the work for him, unless he was exhausted to the point where he could not continue on any further.

“Yes, but many of the books are on how to improve things long term, not just in the short term.” Arwen nodded, leaning against Aragorn as they walked. “He is wise for his age, to know that there would be need for better infrastructure to ensure there would be restoration in the long term.”

Aragorn sighed, but nodded as well. “He is wise, but I wish that he didn’t need to be.” Pushing open the door to the royal chambers, he lead Arwen over to the bed in the room beyond the living area, sitting next to her. “He is still a year away from being of age, and it seems that he’s been forced to take much responsibility from an even younger age than I suspect.”

Arwen seemed to stiffen for a moment, before sighing softly. “That is something else that we need to discuss, before anything else can happen.”

Aragorn frowned softly, gently brushing hair away from Arwen’s face. “What do you mean? Do you wish for me to ask him to step down until he is of age?” He didn’t want to do such a thing, but there was little that he wouldn’t do for the sake of Arwen.

But Arwen was shaking her head, reaching to hold Aragorn’s hand against her face. “No, nothing of that sort. It does concern him though, in a way that is rather serious.”

Aragorn tilted his head. “What’s happened?” he asked, gently. “Has something happened?”

She ducked her head, smiling, despite herself. Then she sighed, and looked up at him. “The night we pledged to be married, you told me about something that had happened earlier in Gondor.”

Aragorn nodded, knowing to what she was referring to. “None of the details have become less fuzzy in intervening years. I wish I could remember why I did it to begin with, I just remember regretting it even in the moment. But I take full responsibility for my actions, and it hasn’t happened again, I swear. Ever am I faithful to you, my love.”

“I know.” Arwen kissed his hand, before holding it in her lap. “I wish that we had talked about any possible ramifications then. If anyone had known about it, and that you and Thorongil are one and the same, people could use that to make the claim that they’re your heir. We’ll be able to know that they’re all lying because we can tell when people lie, but they would have left behind some doubt, and you might have always wondered if there really was someone out there who was your firstborn child.”

Aragorn winced painfully. The idea of it had never crossed his mind, but what if…

“It’s okay,” Arwen assured him. “Elladan and Elrohir rode swiftly to Rivendell straight after the fall of Mordor because they wanted to tell me themselves about the individual they believed to be your child.”

The elves knew. Of course the elves would know, there was something about Isildur’s bloodline that was like a glowing bell or something. “Were they right? Who is it?”

Arwen shifted until she was sitting on Aragorn’s lap, and wrapped her arms around him tightly. “Congratulations,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s a boy. Faramir, in fact. You could have done a lot worse than someone who cares about his people as much as you do.” She kissed his cheek. “Can I keep him?”   
  
Aragorn blinked.  _ Faramir.  _ Faramir was his son, which meant he had slept with Denethor’s  _ wife _ . He wrapped his arms around Arwen, clinging to her as he shook. Why had he done it?

“It’s okay,” Arwen repeated, kissing him again. "I don't blame you, I never have."

“I love you,” he said. He didn’t deserve her love, but she’d waited almost twenty years to marry him and hadn’t run away yet.

She pushed him back onto the bed. “And I you, my king,” she said, playfully. “Why don’t we rest awhile, and then I’ll show you just how much I want you?”

He leaned upwards to press a kiss to her lips, allowing himself to lose himself within the depths of her love.

* * *

Faramir stared at the door leading into the third floor council chamber. Council had only ever been held there occasionally, as Denethor had much preferred to have them where he could sit on his throne, such that it was.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Anborn said from behind him. “We could always go have breakfast in the kitchen.”

He wasn’t hungry, but he also hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day and knew from what Anborn left unsaid that not eating was not an option.

He was wearing the sling, less because they’d reminded him to do so and more because his shoulder hurt more than it had in days.

He had woken early, so he’d debriefed the rangers on what each of them had read during the night, and after checking some of their sources and his own, he’d written an entire report on options both short term and long term for ways to get agriculture going and ways to improve the state of housing and existing architectural issues that could cause future hindrance if it wasn’t fixed while repairs and improvements were being done. He’d also written some notes that if the diplomatic relations still existed, asking for aid from the elves and the dwarves would not be remiss.

And now he wondered if maybe he hadn’t gotten a little ahead of himself. Did the king even want his input on the wellness of the city and advice on ways to fix it? But if he didn’t, why make him steward at all?

“Faramir.”

He glared at Anborn, and with a sigh, pushed the door open. Curse his rangers for forcing him to do what they thought was best.

“Faramir! You made it! Aragorn said he’d invited you, but not whether or not you’d agreed to come, and I’m so glad you’re here!” Faramir didn’t have much time to react before a small body was running into his own, arms wrapping around his torso.

He found himself smiling, despite his earlier mood, as he wrapped his good arm around the hobbit. “I’m glad that you are here as well,” Faramir spoke quietly, already feeling better about having to leave his room, with his friend by his side. 

“Oh! You haven’t met the others yet!” Pippin suddenly gasped, pulling away and pointing towards three other equally small figures, standing off to the side from the others, waving slightly. “Do you want to meet them?”

With a quick glance to Anborn, who nodded his agreement, Faramir smiled at Pippin, before nodding. “I would be honored to meet your friends.”

Pippin was grinning broadly, leading the way towards the other hobbits as he chattered. “They’re not really  _ just _ my friends, they’re my cousins. Well, except for Sam, but that’s just because his family is more than ten times removed, so it doesn’t really count anymore, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t family.”

“Doesn’t make you any less likely to cause mischief for me either, Pip.” One of the hobbits chimed in, rolling his eyes as he did so, before speaking again. “Samwise Gamgee, pleased to meet you, Mister Faramir, Sir. Pip’s been telling us a good deal about you.”

Another of the hobbits was grinning, throwing an arm around Pippin’s shoulders as he stepped forward. “Be honest, Sam, you wouldn’t have our Pippin any other way!”

“This is Merry,” Pippin said. “He’s my first cousin.”

“My mom, Esmerelda Took, is Paladin Took’s sister,” Merry explained. “But I’m a Brandybuck because my dad is." 

Faramir was able to recall that Paladin was the name of Pippin’s father, and decided that was a pretty simple lineage explanation, but wasn’t quite sure why Merry had decided it was necessary to share that piece of information. He supposed that hobbits might take last names differently than the humans of Gondor did, so perhaps it had been.

“At least let him sit down before you start getting into the family tree, you two.” The last of the hobbits spoke, and Faramir was grateful for it, until he realized who had spoken.

It was the one that he had taken captive, and dragged with him to Osgiliath. The one who had taken the ring to Mordor, and saved them from the threat of Sauron.

A ranger had warned him that releasing the hobbits was treason, that it meant his life was forfeit, and he'd been okay with that trade. He'd  _ seen _ pieces of the future, enough to know that exactly one path would save the world.

But he just  _ knew _ that was why Denethor had sent the mission to "reclaim" Osgiliath, even with no chance against the beasts of Mordor that had seized it. Three hundred men had died for nothing.

Except he had also seen one possibility of taking Frodo and Sam to Gondor that had not prevented the ring from being destroyed, though it still led to the death of his men. So really, releasing the hobbits had caused nothing that taking them to Gondor would have prevented, and prevented the remote chance of Denethor getting his hands on the ring.

A flash of searing pain flew up his arm and down his back. The papers he had still been holding scattered across the floor, which he hit with a thunk a moment later.

He was dimly aware of a large form on his right, but he couldn't focus on it or the shouting that had started because he was either going to pass out or throw up from the pain in his shoulder. Small hands were reaching out, guiding him up and away from whatever had happened, even as he was still blinded by the pain.

“Sit him here, next to Frodo,” someone’s voice broke through the haze, and though he still wasn’t certain of what was going on, Faramir found himself being helped into a plush chair, further away from the shouting that continued.

“That shoulder is dislocated,” someone else said,  _ his king _ . He tried to shift or anything,  _ this wasn’t proper _ , but it only caused another wave of pain to wash through his right side.

“No, Faramir, hold still. Estel, do  _ something _ .”

“Faramir, can I fix your shoulder?”

“Go ahead,” he mumbled, not really sure what was being asked of him. What was the worst that could happen?

The sling was removed from around his neck, and his right arm tugged sharply around and then pulled. This motion was concluded by a loud popping sound and overwhelming pain, which soon faded into nothing.

* * *

Aragorn had been speaking with Arwen and Legolas, when the door to the council chamber opened, allowing Faramir to enter, one of the rangers behind him. He watched as Pippin ran up to him, seemingly throwing himself at Faramir, but Aragorn could see the care and caution in the action, hidden under the excitement.

“Those two seem to be close,” Arwen commented, changing the subject away from what it had been. 

“Nearly as close as he and Merry had been to Boromir.” Aragorn nodded, watching how Faramir looked towards the ranger before allowing Pippin to lead him towards the other hobbits. “It makes me wish that Boromir were here, to see what all has been accomplished.”

There was a nod from Legolas, before the elf prince sighed. “Boromir would not be pleased to know what happened with his father though. From what Gandalf has said, he was not himself in the end.”

“Pippin’s quick thinking saved Faramir’s life.”

Faramir’s ranger had all but materialized next to him.

“He did?” Aragorn asked, wondering if he should have perhaps questioned the story he’d been given when Gandalf had brought him to heal Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry from the Black Breath. Eowyn and Merry had contracted it killing the Witch King, but he  _ knew  _ Faramir hadn’t been on that battlefield that late. Unless he’d gotten it in the run on Osgiliath that had led to the death of so many of his rangers. But Pippin hadn’t been out there, had he? So how had Pippin saved his life?

“He and Beregond,” Anborn said with a nod.

Aragorn wondered if that was why Faramir had asked him to make Beregond the captain of his guard, but he hadn’t asked. It hadn’t seemed like it was any of his business, or even that it should be his responsibility to do so, but Faramir had insisted he make it official, in front of everybody. So he had.

“What happened?” He didn’t know any of the details of what had happened, except that something had, and possibly that Denethor had been involved, if what little of what Pippin had shared was to be believed.

Anborn didn’t answer, nor did he ever receive the opportunity to do so, because at that moment, Gandalf was standing, abruptly, and bumping directly into Faramir’s injured shoulder and sending his steward toppling to the floor, and strewing papers everywhere.

“Gandalf!” Pippin shouted. “Why would you do that!”

Faramir didn’t move, and for a moment, Aragorn wondered if he might have hit his head. Legolas and Anborn were already moving, and Arwen went around the other direction to pick up the papers Faramir had dropped.

He approached to see if he could get a better look at Faramir’s shoulder.

“Sit him here, next to Frodo,” Sam said. 

Aragorn watched as Anborn and Legolas carefully lifted Faramir so he was slouched over the plush chair, and winced slightly. At least Faramir was young, but at the very least, a chaise might have been better. As he stared at the arm in the sling, he studied the bend of the shoulder, as his eyes widened. “That shoulder is dislocated.” How had they  _ missed  _ that?

Faramir shifted, pale, and green, and clearly only causing himself more pain but not really coherent enough to know what was going on, which led Aragorn back to wondering if he may have hit his head, but he also had no idea how much pain the Steward was in.

“No, Faramir, hold still,” Arwen said, but she didn’t reach for him. Her arms were full of the papers that Faramir had brought, and wondered what could have possibly been so important. This was supposed to be a  _ casual  _ gathering of friends. “Estel, do  _ something _ .”

Aragorn stepped forward, but gave a hesitant look towards the ranger first. He’d trained as a healer under Elrond, and had plenty of experience with dislocated shoulders working with the rangers of the north, but Anborn didn’t know any of that. However, the ranger did not seem inclined to stop him as he stepped closer until he was standing next to Faramir. If anything, the ranger seemed to look mildly curious. 

“Faramir, can I fix your shoulder?” He wasn’t sure how aware Faramir was, but he wanted to at least try to get his consent before going ahead and fixing it.

“Go ahead,” the steward mumbled.

Aragorn was pretty sure Faramir wasn’t even aware enough to know what he was consenting to, but he took it anyway. It wasn’t really an immediate necessity, but would definitely help the pain in the short term, even if there was a momentary increase of pain required to relocate it.

He untied Faramir’s sling, and then tugged his arm over and up, twisting at the right moment with most of his weight until the sound of it returning to place was audible.

Faramir went limp, but he was also still breathing

“Aragorn, you should read this.” Arwen said. She was holding the sheaf of papers Faramir had dropped when he had fallen. “I’ll make sure Faramir’s alright.”

He nodded, and took the papers from Arwen, wondering what she could have seen in them that made her want him to read them  _ right now _ .

The paper had a title at the top, “Agricultural and Architectural needs of Gondor” and a concise summary underneath it that Aragorn could only suppose was a brief outline of the contents of the rest of the paper. The paper continued on to outline in detail the two biggest problems Gondor faced (with a brief mention of the concern about drinking water that nobody else had mentioned yet, as far as Aragorn had heard) as well as offering multiple short term and long term solutions to both, with sources referenced within the paper.

It was a well written paper, and had even included a few ideas Aragorn hadn’t had time to consider yet, as well as mentioning further damage the orcs had caused that he hadn’t thought about either. He looked at Anborn. “Who wrote it?” he asked, already deciding it was highly likely that Faramir had.

Anborn’s facial expression shifted to cautiously guarded. “Faramir wrote it,” he said, after a few moment’s hesitation.

Most would have suspected the hesitation to be an indicator of a lie, but Aragorn  _ knew  _ when people were lying, and Anborn wasn’t, which meant that Anborn had some other reason to be hesitant, guarded, about Aragorn knowing who wrote it. But why?

He nodded, because that’s what he’d suspected. The rangers might have done a lot of the reading for him, but the coherency of the paper was a clear indicator that he had learned the relevant details from them for himself. “It’s a good paper,” he said, which was the truth. It was. “What kind of plant is saltbush?”

Anborn blinked. “It’s grown in the coastal regions of Dol Amroth. The leaves and fruit are edible, and it’s been noted that it has both a high tolerance for salty soils and can considerably lower the soil’s salt content over time. It also doesn’t have to be replanted every year, as it’s a kind of shrub.”

Arwen stood from where she had been kneeling at Faramir’s side. “Faramir’s just blacked out, I think he’ll come to in a moment,” she said, looking at Aragorn. 

Aragorn nodded. “Let’s move the furniture around so we can all eat breakfast over here after he does.”


	3. Chapter 3

The furniture was arranged in the back of the room so that they could all sit and eat without making Faramir, or Frodo, move across the room. While they were moving it, Merry and Gimli had gone to see about having their breakfast delivered as it hadn’t arrived yet.

By the time the furniture had been moved and the hobbit and dwarf had returned with some servants carrying platters, Faramir was stirring.

Anborn was sitting at the foot of the table, forward and to Faramir’s left. He was drinking a hot cup of tea Aragorn had poured for him.

Aragorn was closer to the head of the table. He’d wanted to check on Frodo and Sam and make sure they were doing alright. He’d only been able to get them out of the House of Healing after several oaths to make sure that they didn’t overdo it, but everything he knew about hobbits suggested that they were pretty hardy folk, as long as they had food and company to keep their spirits high. Frodo and Sam had had neither, only themselves, on their trek through Mordor and it was easy to see that it had taken a lot out of them both physically and mentally. He couldn’t say for sure, but he almost wondered that it might not have taken even more from them mentally.

“Hey, Faramir,” Anborn said, gently, when Faramir finally opened his eyes.

Faramir inhaled deeply while blinking several times to force them to focus. His arm still hurt, but less than it had earlier, and he tried shifting it experimentally. Tight, but nothing a few weeks of morning exercises wouldn’t fix.

“You dislocated your shoulder,” Anborn said. “It’ll be at least six weeks before you can do what you’re thinking about doing.”

“I wasn’t-”

There was a small pot of beef stew on the table in front of Anborn, so he reached for the ladle and poured a serving into Faramir’s bowl, and a smaller serving into his own bowl. “You were.”

Pippin suddenly sat down on Faramir’s left, much closer than would have been considered socially polite and a greater closeness than he would have allowed even those closest to sit, most of the time. But he didn’t mind that it was Pippin.

“You have to try this raisin and walnut bread!” Pippin exclaimed, trying to hold out the entire platter of bread slices towards Faramir. 

Faramir stared at the slices of bread and took one, not sure yet whether or not he felt like eating it. He wasn't sure he felt like eating at all, but he knew Anborn wouldn't allow that. Yet even the thought of trying to choke any of the food down was greatly unappealing. 

Anborn took one of the slices of bread off the platter Pippin was still holding. There wasn't room at their end of the table to set it down.

Merry, who was sitting across from Pippin, took several slices of bread and then passed the platter on towards Gimli and the elves.

There was one other platter on the table, a scrambled egg and sausage dish. Merry and Pippin put a heap of it onto their slices of bread.

“What’s it like in Rivendell?” Faramir asked, suddenly. There was mostly silence everywhere around the table, and he was eyeing his spoon with a bit of uncomfortability, as he tried to decide whether or not to simply pick it up with his left hand, as his right had been put back in the sling and he just knew it wouldn’t be pretty if he tried to take it out, especially since Anborn was sitting within reach of him.

“It was so pretty!” Pippin exclaimed. “It was built right over these waterfalls but without blocking the flow of the rivers so everything was green and lush and it was so green! Not as green as the shire, but greener than anywhere else we went.”

“Fangorn forest was pretty green,” Merry cut in. “So was Lorien.”

“Mirkwood is as green as Lorien was,” Legolas chimed in. "It's more wild, though. Less… civilized. The shadow from Dol Guldir changed it in ways not necessarily for the better."

"Such as creating a habitat for the giant spiders Bilbo spoke of?" Frodo asked.

"Yeah, there were a lot of giant spiders in Mirkwood. And other such creatures. My hope is that now that the shadow is gone, they'll haunt the forest no longer.” Legolas took one of the slices from the platter, and as he was about to take a bite out of it, he dropped it onto his plate and turned his head back up to stare at Frodo. “Bilbo was in Mirkwood.” He blinked. “Did Bilbo release the dwarves being held prisoner in Thranduil’s dungeons?”

Faramir wondered for a moment if Legolas would get any answer at all. Aragorn and Arwen looked highly amused, and as though they might burst out laughing if either of them were to open their mouths. He supposed that Frodo at the very least may have heard the story, if the other hobbits hadn’t, but he did not seem inclined to speak up.

“Aye, Laddie,” Gimli said, nodding. “The company of Thorin Oakenshield needed a 14th companion, and a burglar, and Gandalf was determined that it could only be Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of finest quality, compared to the others of the time.”

Legolas banged his head on the table. “And Bilbo Baggins stole thirteen dwarves right out of Thranduil’s dungeons.” He was just picking his head up off the table when he blanched, facing losing what little color it already had. “You mustn’t tell him,” he said, then, with a glance at Arwen and Aragorn who were no longer looking as mirthful, the genuine  _ terror  _ written across Legolas’ face concerning them, “You  _ mustn’t. _ ”

They sat in silence, Legolas breathing heavily and looking quite ready to bolt from the room, and nobody seemed to be quite sure what to say to fix it. A question was forming in Faramir’s mind, but he was certain that now was not a good time to ask it. He recognized that fear, along with the insistence that they do nothing that would bring about what Legolas was fearing the most.

“Legolas, what is Thranduil’s relationship to you?” Pippin asked, seemingly to almost have reached right into Faramir’s head and plucked the lingeringly question with significantly less restraint than Faramir had managed while formulating the same one.

“He’s the lord over Mirkwood,” Legolas said, “and he’s my father.”

Faramir winced, and hid it by finally putting a spoonful of the soup in his mouth. He was sure that it was supposed to be good soup, Anborn had eaten most of his already, but he found that everything he’d eaten lately had tasted of sawdust and ash, and unbidden the chunks of meat were drawing images of the war strewn Pelennor to his mind, and of all the unidentified bodies and the bodies of the enemy orcs.

He swallowed thickly around the last bite of soup, and it took a few deep breaths to be sure that it wasn’t going to come back up again.

“Faramir, are you alright?” Aragorn asked.

He nodded carefully. He felt crowded and he  _ needed  _ to leave. “I beg your pardon, but if I could please be excused?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for joining us this morning. Uh, wait, Faramir? Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Anborn for a little while?”

The request confused Faramir, but he needed out of the room more than he wanted to dwell on that and he wasn’t about to say no. “Of course not,” he mumbled, standing quickly enough to almost knock Pippin onto the floor and with a quick formal bow, he fled the room.

He didn’t want to dwell on Legolas’ fears, so much like his own such that they resembled them, nor the food that was too eerily similar to the landscape that haunted his mind.

His hands were empty, and he remembered that he’d brought a report for the king to read, and wondered where it had gone. The last time he’d written such a report, Denethor had torn it to shreds right in front of him. He’d more or less known that Denethor had probably destroyed all the ones before it, but without true confirmation, he could always hope that the next time would be different.

Yet it never was, and he wondered why some part of him still had hope that maybe the king would be different. Could, in some part of himself, find it in him to at least consider his council.

Old habits led him to a chamber door that was not his own. Even when Boromir had been gone, his room had provided some comfort. As he stared at the obviously locked door, he wondered at whether or not Denethor would have had it stripped, all evidence of his favorite child burned as a memorial to him. Yet he couldn’t resist the temptation to pull the illicit key from his pocket, a faint hope that maybe it was still the same, just as disorganized as Boromir had left it in his haste to pack for Rivendell.

He opened the door, and almost sobbed in relief. He could almost imagine the last time he’d been standing here in the doorway. Boromir had been hastily packing for his ride to Rivendell, creating disarray as he’d discarded garment after garment onto the floor as being “just not the right thing”. He had been standing in the doorway watching, laughing in delight, even as Boromir had been intentionally playing the jester to ease the tension of knowing that it would be a long time before they saw each other again, and of course, knowing that the possibility existed that Boromir would not return alive.

And he had not. Closing the door behind him, he sobbed as he crashed onto Boromir’s bed, grabbing one of the pillows and trying to pretend that he could still smell the scent that belonged only to his big brother.

* * *

Arwen had excused herself to make sure that Faramir was alright, and comfort him if she could. She had not read his mind, as she was in the habit of giving people their privacy, for the most part, but she had pressed the surface enough to determine that he was upset, both because what little Legolas had implied had tried to surface his own relatable experiences, as well as seen what the root of his lack of appetite might be.

He entered a room that was not his own, and did not seem to have the presence of mind to notice as she peeked inside the room. She couldn’t tell just by looking who the room might have belonged to, as it merely resembled any messy teenager’s room. It could have even been either of her brothers’ rooms.

So she allowed herself to glean the name of the owner from his mind, and decided that she was unsurprised that it was Boromir’s room, because her understanding had been that only Faramir and Aragorn still occupied rooms on the fourth floor, and made sense that Boromir would have as well.

Curiosity sated, and armed with the knowledge that he would fall asleep momentarily, she headed back to his room so that she could let the ranger or guard on duty of Faramir’s location so that they would not be worried by what could be misunderstood as a disappearance, while also recommending that they not disturb Faramir because rest was the best thing to help her injured and mentally weary son.

Arwen did not care for how Finduilas had stolen a firstborn from her Aragorn, her husband, but that did not mean that she would not care for Faramir. He deserved better than the way people in the past had treated him, and he wasn’t the only one.

To her luck, one of the rangers, the eldest of the three she had seen the night before, was standing outside Faramir’s bedroom.

“My Lady,” the ranger said. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name last night. If you’ve come looking for Faramir, he isn’t back from breakfast with His Kingship yet.”

“I’m Arwen,” she said, then decided that there were good reasons not to elaborate further about herself, starting and ending with the fact that she and Aragorn had not discussed whether he wanted to introduce her as his betrothed, or his wife. There had been other matters to attend to, such as consummating said marriage. “I believe Faramir entered his brother’s chambers. I’d recommend letting him sleep, but since Aragorn wished to speak with Anborn, I escorted him, and if he’s still awake, I think he could use a friendly face.”

“You’re sure he’s in Boromir’s room?” Arwen nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

She watched the ranger head in that direction, and smiled. Just like her Aragorn, Faramir had found some loyal companions in his own rangers.

* * *

Anborn was really confused as to why Aragorn had asked him to stay. His responsibility was to Faramir, not the king. As was his loyalty. Still, it was a chance to learn more about this new king, and better decide if it would be safer for Faramir than it had been under Denethor’s rule.

Not that it would be hard to foster a safer environment for Faramir than that had been. They’d been able to manage it, and they had been in the wilderness fighting orcs and Haradrim.

He knew better than to come to a quick judgement over something as important as this, but he decided that if Aragorn was so much as half as interested in Faramir’s paper as he had earlier appeared, that this was also already a better environment for his charge.

But Aragorn was busy, speaking quietly to the blonde elf, and Anborn took the opportunity to watch, and observe. Like all rangers, he was well skilled in the art of not being noticed, even when one knew he was there. It was a skill that had served him well, as he had worked with Boromir to ensure Faramir’s safe escape from Minas Tirith, and it would continue to be a well used skill, until the day when he could not guide and protect Faramir any longer.

Aragorn seemed to be keeping his voice calm, tone even and low, not reaching to touch the elf, even as Anborn could see his hands twitch. It was clear that he wanted to reach out and try to comfort him, but he would not risk startling him any further than he already was.

After several minutes, Aragorn nodded softly, stepping back to allow the elf room to move as he stood.

Anborn had been so occupied watching Aragorn and the elf, that he hadn’t noticed that one of the hobbits that had gone to Mordor had unfurled four sleeping rolls onto the floor. The other one had already laid down on one of the mats, though the other two hobbits seemed to be unable to decide which pallets they were going to sleep on.

“Legolas! Won’t you come lie down with us?” Pippin exclaimed.

Pippin was the only hobbit of the bunch that Anborn knew. It was hard to tell with the halflings, but he was pretty sure that Pippin was the youngest of them. He also seemed to be the most excitable, and the troublemaker, and Anborn had never known Faramir to make friends with anyone anywhere near as fast as he had made friends with Pippin. The fact that Faramir had allowed Pippin to sit almost in his lap at breakfast was a testament of that fact.

Legolas hesitated, but Aragorn seemed to whisper something to him that had him changing his mind. “Sure, Pippin. Where should I lie down?”

The question seemed to befuddle the young hobbit. “We’ll make room,” he decided.

“King Strider Sir,” the hobbit that had laid out the mats started, “Won’t you join us for nap time?”

Anborn blinked at the monicker. Aragorn wasn’t the king of the halflings. He’d seen a map that showed the Shire as being in a location that likely would have been under the rule of the kings of Arnor, but the Shire had to have been independent since at least before Arnor had fallen into complete ruin several thousand years before. He had heard of a Ranger of the North called Strider, though.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’ll have to bow out of Hobbit Nap Time today. I have some things to do first. But I’m sure Legolas will enjoy it.”

The elf flushed. He turned to look at Aragorn, and Anborn wondered if that was a smirk. “I didn’t have the opportunity earlier, but I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage to Arwen,  _ Mellon _ . Twenty years is a long engagement even for elves, and I wish you both many many years of happiness.”

When had the king married? There had been no elven delegations, and no festivities. Not so much as a public announcement, and surely he hadn’t married right before the crowning? He wasn’t sure, but he guessed that Arwen was the elven lady who had sat on Aragorn’s right, but he hadn’t introduced her to him or Faramir and the others had all seemed to know who she was.

The king flushed scarlet, causing Anborn to further wonder what context he was missing.

“Er, thank you, Legolas.”

“Strider! Why didn’t you invite us to the wedding!” Pippin shrieked.

Anborn hadn’t thought it possible, but Aragorn turned even more crimson. “Elven marriages don’t have witnesses,” he mumbled. “Anborn, I would speak with you in the hallway.” He stalked out of the room.

“Legolas? Did that take it too far?” one of the other hobbits asked.

Legolas sighed as he laid down by the hobbits. “I should have kept my mouth shut. It’s just… he’s been pining after Arwen for like 60 mortal years, and it  _ is  _ something to be celebrated. But it can also be a really personal thing. Elves can tell almost instantly whether or not other elves are married. I had never thought about how it might work between an elf and a human, but Aragorn is a descendant of elves, so when it came across loud and clear to me that he was  _ married _ , I wanted to celebrate it.”

Anborn could tell that Legolas was hinting at some further subtext, but he didn’t have time to really poke at the pieces of the puzzle, because Aragorn called him from the hallway and interrupted his thoughts.

“Are congratulations in order?” Anborn asked once he was in the hallway. Aragorn hadn’t appeared strictly  _ angry _ , mostly embarrassed, but for Faramir’s sake, he had to know how Aragorn would react when the wrong buttons were pushed repeatedly. There was also a difference between his being pestered by incredibly close friends versus his being pestered by a complete stranger, such as himself, which was his other reason for asking the question.

“Arwen and I haven’t decided whether or not we’re going to have a more official Gondorian wedding, or simply announce that we are already wed. With all the preparations that need to be made to ensure that there is enough housing and food for Gondor’s inhabitants and refugees, along with negotiating the council politics, a huge wedding is probably a waste of resources.”

“But it would also give the people something to be excited about. Something positive that shows them that the future is hopeful and bright,” Anborn concluded, “but of course it’s not my place to say as much.”

Aragorn smiled wryly. “I think you’re experienced at finding ways to give council to others without anyone knowing it was your council being given. But that’s not what I’m most curious about.”

Observant. Yet he wouldn’t have expected anything less from another ranger. Especially not from one of the Dunedain, where being a ranger was an entire culture unto itself. Ithilien rangers weren’t quite like that. Aragorn was a ranger, son of a ranger, son of a ranger, and their wives were probably rangers too.

He raised an eyebrow to encourage Aragorn to speak.

“The Northern Rangers don’t have captains, or deputies, and the chieftains are such in name only. We listen to each other call commands because we’ve learned to trust each other and that the commands will save our lives, and they do.”

Anborn was pretty sure he knew where this was going, but he kept his facial expression neutral regardless. He had guessed this would come. The king was  _ observant _ . He said nothing.

“The Ithilien Rangers were the same way, when I was here before. Someone was chosen to speak to the Steward, and whom the Steward addressed, but it was just a task that served the greater purpose of the rangers. So why don’t you tell me about Captain Faramir and Deputy Anborn.”

Anborn considered outright denying the request. Aragorn didn’t have his loyalty. Maybe he deserved it, maybe he didn’t, but he hadn’t earned it yet. He went as far as thinking what defiant statement he could make, and then he made the mistake of looking the king in the eyes.

Boromir had been the 9th member of the fellowship that had left Rivendell with the honorable goal of getting the Ring of Power into Mordor and destroying it, which meant Boromir had fought side by side with this human. Anborn’s loyalty may have been to Faramir since Faramir had been born, but Boromir had been his best friend first, and maybe Aragorn had earned that story.

“Why is Faramir the Captain, and I’m his loyal deputy? I wish Boromir were here to tell you that story.” He had guessed correctly, as Aragorn froze at the name, but he didn’t speak. “It’s mostly not my story to tell. Is it enough to say that in a well devised plan to remove Faramir from the city, Boromir managed to convince Denethor that Faramir was captain of the Ithilien Rangers? Faramir was 15 years old, interested in reading books in elvish tongues, not in the arts of war, and it was public knowledge that Denethor despised his every existence. Finduilas died in childbirth, and Boromir picked up the silent newborn, seeming to claim him as his own in the eyes of the public. Faramir is one of my rangers on his own merits, but he was placed with us for Boromir’s sake first.”

Aragorn stared at him, and because Anborn was waiting for a response, the king spoke first after a few moments of silence. "You were close to Boromir, then?" 

Anborn sighed. "We grew up together." He had been the son of one of the councilmen at the time, and being Boromir's age, had been encouraged to spend time with the Steward's son. The intention of course had been for him to gain favor, but it hadn't been about that for him. Boromir had been lonely and he had been bored, and the friendship they'd struck had been almost instant. “We trained together, until he joined the army, and I became a ranger.”

In his mind's eye, he could recall the morning of Faramir's birth almost as clearly as if it had only just happened. He and Boromir had been eating breakfast in the kitchen, when the maid had come in screaming that the Lady Finduilas had perished.

He remembered running on Boromir's tail, running through the castle and up four flights of stairs to the lady's chambers. He had stood in shock, as Boromir had dashed into the room and scooped the silent infant from beside the still warm body of their mother, and remembered his momentary dismay as he had not known that the baby lived.

And then Faramir had wailed, and all their hearts had melted. He had not known this at the time, having never been around newborns, but Boromir's baby brother had not screamed so loudly as most healthy babies were wont to scream.

Anborn sighed again, and shook his head. "I would return to my post, if you would dismiss me, Sire."

"Of course," Aragorn said. "Thank you for speaking with me."

* * *

After waking up, Faramir had returned to the archives, arm dutifully kept in the sling. Anborn had informed him that Aragorn had seemed to appreciate his report on the state of their agriculture and architecture, but you could never really be sure, and he really didn’t feel like staying in the castle.

He had borrowed the account ledgers for his own accounts and that of that of his office, along with a sheaf of blank paper and the inventories from all the guilds in the city, because the next thing he wanted to do was make sure that they could purchase all the food necessary to keep the city from starving.

There was no safe way to predict the amount of crops they could harvest, if the plan of growing salt tolerant crops worked, but in the event of a good harvest, they could always sell any excess the following year, but that also required ensuring healthy diplomatic relations with all the nations around them.

The nations of men needed no more war, but the corsairs of the south had always seemed to favor antagonistic relationships with all the other nations. But  _ why _ ?

Promising himself to research Harad more in depth later, he set to work with the accounts.

* * *

Hours later, and he had determined a whole bunch of different ways to spend  _ all  _ of the coin he had to work with, and still not feed all the people. There were several ways mathematically that he could use to determine the way to get the  _ most  _ food, but they were still going to be short too much, and it was unacceptable.

If he insisted to the council that any deaths in Gondor was unacceptable, their next demand would be for Gondor to stop accepting refugees, and to even send ones they already had, away. That was unacceptable too. Even if they died of starvation outside of Gondor, they were still people of Gondor and that was still wrong.

Taxes were still too high in Gondor. His recommendation to Denethor that they be lowered while still providing all the best benefits of social engineering had done nothing, if anything, he’d taxed the people higher in retribution. These people deserved to benefit for all that they could barely afford them….

He looked back down at the ledgers. Where had all that money  _ gone _ ?

Whose pockets had been lined with all that gold, and how was he going to get it back, so that they could feed all the people of their city. 

Were there any old laws regarding the use of tax money? Or maybe a precedence for getting the money back in times of great need. He’d just have to go look in the section of old laws. He remembered what book he wanted, and that it was kept on the top shelf in law book section, so he’d just have to limb up there.

He took his sling off, and headed up a flight of stairs so he could get to the section of law books, and then he climbed up on top of the bookcases, just as he had all his life, and headed where he needed to go.

He heard two people speaking in an elvish language before he saw them. He couldn’t follow exactly what they were saying, but the gist of the conversation seemed to be that they were arguing about which of the books they might be looking for and whether or not they were even in the right section to find what they were looking for.

He came to a stop directly over the place that they were standing, and wondering if the two elves needed tax advice too.

“ _ Can I help you find something?”  _ he asked in his best replication of the elvish he thought they were speaking. Most scholars of Gondor were fluent in the elvish language of Sindarin, but Faramir himself had needed to teach himself, as Denethor had not only ensured he could never have a tutor in the language, but also gone out of his way to make it nearly impossible to find books on the subject either. He’d tried anyway, and while there were many books in the library in elvish tongues, he suspected that it was more than one language, despite their usage of the same script and alphabet.

The elves looked up at him, and the mild confusion on their faces caused Faramir to consider if his grasp of the language was really so poor that they had not understood him. He was halfway through the process of repeating the question with different words when they answered him.

_ “Mayhap. We’re looking for a book on Gondorian Adoption laws.” _

He wasn’t fully sure that he understood what they were looking for, but he leaned over the edge of the bookcase so that he could see which books were on the shelf and then grabbed the one that he thought would be the closest approximation to what they were looking for.  _ “Is this it?”  _ he asked, dropping it down to them.

The book was written in Westron, and belatedly, Faramir wondered if he should have asked if it was a language they could first, or if he should check to see if there was a copy in an Elvish tongue, though he doubted there would be. Then again, why would elves who only spoke Elvish  _ need  _ to know about Gondorian Adoption rules?

The elf that had caught the book opened it and flipped through the pages.  _ “Aye, this is exactly what we were hoping for.” _

That was good then.

_ “Is there something we can help you with, to return the favor?”  _ the other elf asked.

_ “The books I’m looking for are right here. May I pass them to you so I can climb down?” _

They nodded, so he selected the books from the top shelf that seemed most useful to him, eight volumes of Gondor’s historical tax laws, and passed the thick tomes down to the elves below. Once he had decided that he could always come back if he didn’t find what he was looking for, he scrambled off the bookcase and landed on his feet.

His shoulder ached with displeasure, but he did not believe that he had dislocated it again, which was for the best. The rangers would lecture him for hours if they found out about this little stunt.

“Faramir!” the elf on the right exclaimed. _ “Should you not be resting, rather than climbing around the archives?” _

Faramir shrugged with his good shoulder.  _ “Needs must.”  _ He reached out for the books he’d handed them.  _ “I can carry those.” _

_ “We’ll carry them over to your workstation, if you’ll show us where you were sitting,”  _ the elf on the left replied.  _ “And then we’d really like to get a better look at that shoulder of yours. It should be healing faster than this.” _

_ “It’s fine,”  _ Faramir argued.  _ “Aragorn looked at it earlier.” _

The elf on the right narrowed his eyes.  _ “Does Estel know that you’re around climbing bookcases and things when you should be resting?” _

_ “There’s too much work to be done to rest,”  _ he all but snarled, turning around to lead the way back to his workstation, and pleased to note that the elves were following him, though they seemed both hesisitant and concerned.

He didn’t need nor want to be coddled. There was work to be done to keep his people from starving and he didn’t  _ need _ people interfering with the important matters at hand that needed to be settled.

He sat down on the bench with his back to the wall. The elves set all the books down on the table and sat on the bench on the other side of the table.

“ _ I didn’t catch your names,”  _ Faramir finally said, when it became clear that the elves weren’t going to leave him in peace. The elves looked identical to him, with their long dark hair and grey eyes. They looked a lot like the elf who had sat beside Aragorn at breakfast, though he had not learned her name, either. She had looked younger than these two elves, though.

They introduced themselves as Elladan and Elrohir, and Faramir realized that he still hadn’t figured out a way to tell them apart.

He reached for the top book in his stack, and watched discretely as the twins,  _ there was no way they weren’t twins,  _ had taken the book Faramir had found for them, and opened it between them so they could both read the words.

The tax laws he was looking for was not in the first book he skimmed. Nor the second. Nor the third. He’d taken some notes on some interesting bits about a precedent for commandeering all the food specifically for redistribution in extreme cases of food shortage, which he thought might be useful, but didn’t want to have to resort to.

In the next book, he found a tax exemption for widows without a source of income, and for widows whose husband had died in service to Gondor. That definitely included all the soldiers and rangers who had died, but he was also pretty sure he could argue for it to also include the average civilians that orcs had killed inside the city.

There were still four books left, and he hadn’t found anything that made any mention about mis-allocations of tax funds. Nothing about repercussions against the people who were doing harm by defrauding the very civilians who had elected them to write policies that would protect them.

There had to be  _ something _ .

_ “I believe it is time for luncheon,”  _ one of the elves said.  _ “At the very least, you should take a break.” _

Faramir sighed.  _ “I’m not hungry, and I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet.” _

_ “You are more likely to find it when you come back with fresh eyes. You should come along, we’re expected for lunch with Aragorn and Arwen.” _

* * *

Despite all of his protests, Faramir still ended up in a dining room with Aragorn and the twins, wearing his sling.

“Elladan, Elrohir!” Aragorn exclaimed. “I see you’ve found my wayward Steward.”

“We did,” one of the elves said, speaking in common for the first time since Faramir had run into them in the library. “He was climbing bookcases in the archive. Since he wouldn’t let us look his shoulder over, I believe that you should.”

Aragorn frowned. “Faramir, did you  _ not  _ dislocate your shoulder climbing in the archive, just yesterday? I believe I heard Anborn say that you need to take it easy for at least six weeks, and he’s not wrong about that time frame. Climbing buildings and bookcases is not going to speed your recovery.”

“Bookcases are just like ladders, and it’s not like I was climbing up the exterior of the castle again. Besides, we all needed books off the top shelf and none of us were tall enough standing on the floor.”

One of the elves rolled their eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time we have had to boost each other into being able to reach something we otherwise couldn’t.”

“I didn’t know you were there until I was on the other side of the archives from where I climbed up onto the bookcase. Besides, you were so busy jabbering at each other in Elvish, how was I supposed to know you could have fetched the books I needed?”

Both elves blinked, and then-

“ _ You’re conversationally fluent in this language, are you not?” _

_ “And this one, as well?” _

Faramir stared at them, and then chose his word choice very carefully.  _ “Are they not the same? _

_ Merely dialects or an extended vocabulary of one or the other?” _

The elves stared at Faramir in confusion, not understanding. They stood in awkward silence until Aragorn exclaimed, “You learned it by reading, didn’t you!”

They all turned to stare at Aragorn. “What?” Faramir asked.

“There’s two main Elvish languages still in use today, Sindarin, and Quenya, and for the most part, they use the same mode of writing, and the same expanded alphabet covers both languages. They have some differences in pronunciation of certain letters, but it seems you figured that out from the spelling, which makes sense given that the alphabet is a phonetic one. Unfortunately, however, an elf who only knew one of the two languages would not be able to converse with an elf who only knew the other. But you taught yourself a good bit of both, without realizing they were different.”

Faramir ducked his head. “The Lord Steward didn’t see fit to allow me a tutor to learn Sindarin, so I taught myself, with some help from Boromir. I didn’t realize that not all the books written with the Tengwar script were the same language.”

Aragorn looked puzzled. “Were the letters all marked identically? Usually one or the other will use slightly different phonetic markers.”

He shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

The discussion might have continued on longer, except the door opened and the elf from breakfast stepped inside.

The twins, as Faramir was still thinking of them, given that he couldn’t tell them apart yet, turned towards her, and then after a moment, they broke into huge grins, and one of the exclaimed, “Our itty bitty sister is all grown up!”

Faramir eyed the door, and wondered how hard it would be to slip out unnoticed. This was a joyful family reunion, and he didn’t belong here, intruding on this moment. It wasn’t like he was hungry, either, and he had more research to be doing.

He headed for the door just as Arwen was greeting Aragorn, thereby distracting him from Faramir’s movements, and with that, he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Faramir was sitting on top of the tallest bookcase, feet dangling over it, with a thick heavy tome in his arms, when Aragorn managed to track him down several hours later.

“There you are,” Aragorn said, mostly for the sake of informing Faramir that he was there. He’d been watching Faramir for a little while, but he’d decided it was time to make his presence known. “My foster brothers and my wife were most displeased that I let you escape without so much as a bite to eat.”

Faramir shifted the book so that he could see Aragorn over it. “I wasn’t hungry,” he said. “I’m still not hungry. But what is that smell?”

Aragorn smiled wryly. “I brought food.”

Faramir huffed, and Aragorn suspected that his steward would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so guarded. Someone had made this teenager grow up too quickly, and know too much fear, and he was pretty sure he knew who it was. “I don’t need to be coddled. I’ll eat when I get hungry.”

“I don’t want to see you burn yourself out,” Aragorn said. “The research can wait, but you’re not eating, or sleeping, or letting your body heal, and it's worrying.”

“This can’t wait!” Faramir screamed. “There are citizens of Gondor starving to death and nobody ever takes my concerns about their well being seriously! Their taxes are  _ too high  _ and their houses are neither structurally sound nor well built, and people have died, are still dying! The corrupt officials they elected to work together for their best interests are stealing from them and ensuring that their lives are as difficult as possible and it’s not okay! They’re your people now too! Why won’t you care about them?!”

Aragorn sighed, and scrambled up the bookshelves so that he could be on top of the bookcase an arm’s length from Faramir. “I do care about the people, Mellon-nin. The elves are coming soon, from Rivendell and Lorien, and Arwen and I have already sent word asking them to bring as much food as they can spare, and fresh drinking water too, because we don’t know what all the orcs might have contaminated. And Gimli’s already examined some of the architectural problems with the city, and he’s already started working on the wall, as well as sent word for dwarven masons to come and help with city repairs, while enlisting all the able bodied men to help in the meantime. Your paper was a good one too, we can ask Imrahail for seeds that’ll be tolerant of the soils here, so that Gondor can have agriculture this year as well. The world doesn’t have to rest on your shoulders, Faramir, your rangers aren’t the only ones willing to help you.”

Faramir sniffled, and Aragorn wished that he could hug the son he hadn’t known was his. “You read it?”

Aragorn smiled sadly. “I did, Mellon. It was well written and well researched. You did good.”

The teary eyed expression filled with guarded hope the young steward sent him broke the king’s heart. The “You really mean that?” that Fararmir was thinking really hard was written all over his face.

Aragorn broke and pulled the teen into a hug. He pretended the initial flinch didn’t break his heart further, and simply continued hugging him as Faramir started sobbing.   
  
Eventually Faramir calmed and pulled away.

“Why don’t you tell me what you were researching, and I’ll help?” Aragorn suggested, knowing that there was no way he was going to pull Faramir away from the archives yet, and realizing that maybe he didn’t need to. Faramir had seemed as happy as he’d seen him yet, reading his book and almost swinging his legs against the bookshelf. If this was the distraction that Faramir both needed and wanted, who was he to interfere with that?

Faramir smiled at him. “The council has been using the tax funds to line their pockets, and I have the proof in the ledgers. I’m looking for a tax law or a precedent that would allow us to get it back, or make them spend it on goods and services for the people they stole it from. But really, anything that’ll help the people is good. I already found a law that would allow us to commandeer all the food in the city for redistribution, if the well off have bought it all up to ensure that they won’t starve, while almost causing the less well off to do so. As well as a tax exemption for all the widows whose husbands died in service to the city. Why don’t you look through this book first?” Faramir handed him a thick tome.

Aragorn took the book, and then set the plate of bite sized squares of a fruit pie between them. He had asked his foster brothers for advice on what might help Faramir’s appetite, having seen for himself the thoughts that had come to his mind at breakfast. Elrohir had recommended something a little bit sweet and neither too wet nor too dry and without any meat in it, because getting him to eat at all was more important than the content of the food, and Anborn had recommended bite sized pieces of whatever it was, because Faramir was more likely to eat if he didn’t notice he was doing so. So he’d made the pie, and mixed in some Athelas leaves, and baked it in a square pan so he could cut it into cubes, and hoped Faramir would eat any of it.

But he needn’t have worried. Faramir ate the whole pie over the next few hours, and then looked at him so  _ mournfully  _ when it was all gone.

About the time Aragorn was trying to figure out how to drag Faramir to bed without upsetting him, Faramir exclaimed, “I found it!”

“Hmm?” Aragorn asked, yawning.

“I found the passage we can use to get the mis-allocated tax funds back from the corrupt council members, from the last seven years!”

“Good,” Aragorn said. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning to discuss all the tax research and how to use it to wring the councilmembers necks, so we can go to bed now.”

* * *

They convened the emergency council meeting the next evening. Aragorn was sure it could have waited a few more days, but he also knew that Faramir wasn’t going to believe him about their allies already bringing food until it had arrived, so this at least would provide a suitable distraction, as well as keeping the councilmembers from getting too comfortable.

He and Faramir were sharing a table because Faramir had needed a place to put the stack of relevant research materials, including all the relevant accounting documents and several thick tomes of tax laws with pages bookmarked.

There was a refreshment table with a small quantity of treats, far less than might have been served at former council meetings. Faramir had questioned the necessity of having one at all, what with his constant worry about the city starving, but even the rich had to eat too, and a few treats was hardly excessive.

The snack table was mostly empty, as everyone had taken something as they’d walked by, but he’d put several of the small tarts and some bread squares on a plate between him and Faramir in hopes that his steward would again snack on something, as he was pretty sure Faramir had already skipped at least one meal since the night before.

Anborn had mentioned that he had already gotten Faramir to eat more than the rangers had managed since Faramir had awoken in the House of Healing, so he supposed he wasn’t doing too badly, but it was still a little worrying how willing Faramir was to go without food.

There was chatter among the councilors, and Aragorn was eavesdropping because he didn’t know them yet and he was curious about what they thought the reasons for being here were. What unimpressed him more was the whispers that questioned Faramir’s presence.

He was sure that Faramir could hear those whispers too, but they didn’t seem to concern Faramir. If anything, Faramir seemed almost giddy with excitement, which seemed like an unusual emotion for the teenager, but perhaps he was simply tired of having been cowed and frightened for so long, and was taking some pleasure in finally turning the tables on those he viewed as having been subjugating his people for far too long.

They waited a few more minutes for the members of the council to settle as much as they were going to before the council was officially in session, and then he nodded to Faramir to start. He was sure that everyone was expecting him to start, but he didn’t care about what they believed proper etiquette to be. He and Faramir had discussed exactly how they wanted the council to go, assuming everyone was in a cooperative mood (which of course they wouldn’t be, but they had planned around that, just a little) and Aragorn believed that since this was a topic Faramir had researched thoroughly and held close to his heart, that it was only fair that Faramir should lead the council session. Aragorn was also merely curious in general about how the council members would react to it, and wanted the opportunity to put them in their place, only if it became absolutely necessary.

“If I could have your attention please, the first order of business for today is a review of the tax laws regarding misappropriation of funds that has been occurring for the last seven years. We will also be discussing in detail the extortion, embezzlement of funds, and fraudulent editing of the financial accounts of Gondor’s great city. With the king’s permission, I am speaking on behalf of the people.”

Nobody had quieted down, and if anything, the councilmembers had almost seemed to speak louder, intentionally drowning out Faramir’s words. He had of course been able to hear them, but he’d also listened to Faramir practice this particular speech for several hours and had possibly memorized it. The blatant disrespect offended him. He had declared, in front of the city, that Faramir was  _ his Steward _ , did that authority mean nothing to these people?

Faramir did not continue speaking, nor did Aragorn blame him for pausing, but it did not seem to phase the teenager, nor did it seem to damage the confidence with which he was holding himself, and that pleased Aragorn. If anything, the teen had rolled his eyes and sighed at what he seemed to have already known would be inevitable.

He was about to decide that stepping in was necessary, when he realized that Faramir had started counting silently, mouthing each number slowly and deliberately, and Aragorn realized that Faramir had planned for this, and had in fact already decided on how he was going to handle this. So he did nothing.

The instant his count reached the number a hundred and twenty,  _ two full minutes _ , he pushed the heaviest tome, a probably unnecessary book for today, but the heaviest of them all and the one Faramir had insisted on placing at the top of the stack,  _ now he knew why, _ onto the floor.

The floor was stone tile, the table was tall and the pile of books ever taller, and the width of the large heavy book had been thicker than the length of his hand, and so the force of the impact created a great thrud, which Aragorn decided had a much greater effect on Faramir’s audience than any shouting he might have done, as everyone had fallen silent and had turned to see what the great noise was.

“Now that I have everyone’s attention, and this council is called to session, the first order of business for today is a review of the tax laws regarding misappropriation of funds that has been occurring for the last seven years. We will also be discussing in great detail the extortion, embezzlement of funds, and fraudulent editing of the financial accounts of Gondor’s great city that has been committed by people in this room. With the king’s permission, I am speaking on behalf of the people.

That tax law to which I am referring allows for the full examination of all accounts suspected to have been used for the misappropriation of funds provided to the city in the form of tax-payer money in the last seven years, and indicates that any money issued inappropriately is to be returned, with interest. Once an official notice of amount owed is given, you have seven days to comply, or there will be harsh consequences, including time in prison, and depending on the amount owed, possible liquidation of all assets by the king.”

Aragorn did not fail to notice the stir Faramir’s last few sentences created, but he was also pleased to note that Faramir’s deliberate knocking over of the book had created the exact environment that had served his purpose well, and that they had been quiet enough to allow him to speak.

“Are there any objections? Or may we begin?” Faramir asked, once the stir had dulled to a manageable level to talk over without shouting or raising his voice at all. Faramir nodded to Aragorn when it seemed that everyone in the room had at least one objection.

Aragorn was deliberate in the order he chose the objections to be put forth. Sometimes he dismissed the objection himself, sometimes he nodded at Faramir to speak to it as he saw fit, but it did not take long to handle each of them, as there were only so many people to hear.

“Now, moving on, I have in this stack of documents here, the last seven years of financial information for every single person in this room, and several people who are not. In these documents, I have highlighted a far too great number of cases of briberies, extortions, embezzlements, and other manners of financial misappropriations of taxpayer money. The people deserve justice. Since I assume there will be further objections to the notices most of you are about to receive, the master accountant and his understudies are here to assist you with your financial difficulties. Master Accountant, if you could deliver the official notices?”

With a nod, the master accountant delivered the notices with the statement of amount owed, along with the certified accounting ledger that belonged to the individual. The significant uproar was to be expected, but the king decreed that these actions were final.

And then council was dismissed. Aragorn was pretty sure that there had never been a shorter session.

* * *

Faramir was standing on the balcony where he could see the road from Rivendell, and he was staring wide eyed at the great number of wagons and the elven company escorting them.

“Halbarad rode out with the king to greet them where they camped last night. I heard all the wagons are full to the brim with food and fresh water,” Anborn said, from where he was standing against the wall. “It’ll be easy to feed the people to the end of the year, and the elves from Lorien are said to be bringing food as well.”

“Why are they doing this for us?” Faramir asked. “I know they’re our allies, and that Aragorn was raised in Rivendell and his wife, Arwen, is the daughter of the Lord of Imladris, but that kinship doesn’t require… this  _ extent _ .”

“I take it you haven’t heard much about the legendary responsibility the elves hold for their kin?”

Both Faramir and Anborn turned to see Halbarad holding his head out the balcony door.

“My apologies for disrupting you. Aragorn and Arwen were about to head down to the gate to greet them, and they were wondering if you both would be willing to accompany them.”

Faramir glanced at Anborn, who seemed inclined to go. He wasn’t, though. It would have been fun, especially hearing more of the elven languages spoken, but he was feeling too self conscious about the possibility of being addressed in a language it turned out he couldn’t speak very well at all, and with everyone being away from the castle to see their new guests, it was the perfect time to go visit an old friend. But first, he needed a roast for said friend.

“Thank you for the offer, but I have another matter that needs to be attended to.”

* * *

Aragorn had spent the entire trek back from the city gate telling Elrond all about the son he hadn’t known he’d had. While he was slightly disappointed that Faramir had chosen to remain in the castle, it had allowed him and Arwen to greet Elrond first. Elrond had seen their bond first, and then they had been able to tell him about Faramir. Elrond would have known Faramir’s lineage as instantly as his three children had, and Aragorn hadn’t wanted to need to hide it, anyway.

Elrond had also taken it better than he might have, and Aragorn was glad of that, because Faramir didn’t deserve any trouble over it. He also didn’t know yet, but Aragorn was hoping Elrond might have some ideas for when he should tell Faramir, and if he was ready for such a revelation

His foster-father’s recommendation had been to speak with Boromir  _ who was in fact alive, and had accompanied them from Lorien where he had been healing,  _ first.

Anborn was sitting on the steps of the staircase leading up to Ecthelion’s tower, so Aragorn walked over to him. “Where is Faramir?” he asked.

“He climbed the tower.” After a look of worry from Aragorn, he added, “The internal staircase. No, he didn’t scale the exterior wall. Again.”

“And you’re sure he’s still up there?’ Aragorn didn’t really fancy climbing all the way to the top only to find out that Faramir had escaped the ranger keeping an eye on him and had wandered off somewhere else instead.

Anborn nodded. “He is. But I wouldn’t recommend going up there.”

“Why not?” Elrond asked.

The ranger shrugged. “It’s just usually better to let him come down in his own time. Nobody’s allowed up there. Nobody at all.”

“Have you ever been up there?” Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. Nor do I have any intention of doing so. Boromir was very very specific in his directions that the tower is off limits to anyone other than Faramir. And well…. There’s some stories…”

“I think we’ll manage,” Aragorn said. “But you can wait here.” He was incredibly curious about what Faramir could possibly be keeping in the top of the tower that would have warranted such fear. Or maybe it was just the desire to follow Boromir’s command to the letter in regards to this place.

There were too many stairs. Aragorn and Elrond were both still in the primes of their lives, but that did not mean that the equivalent of 30 flights of stairs was an easy or pleasurable hike for the two of them. What put them at ease though, was that Faramir’s laughter carried easily towards them, and it pleased Aragorn that at the very least, Faramir had found something to entertain him that also brought him some measure of joy. 

The manner of that entertainment unfortunately left something to be desired.

“All children create trouble,” Elrond admitted wryly as they stared at the great creature Faramir was sitting on top of, and even appeared to be  _ scrubbing  _ with a very long handled bristle brush. “But at least you never brought home a dragon.”

“Fara, can I eat the unwarranted intruders?” The creature spoke with a rasping sound, bordering on hissing, and it was staring right at them while Faramir was happily doing his thing.

Why Faramir had decided that polishing the creature’s scales until they gleamed was a good use of his time was a question that Aragorn hoped would be answered at some point.

Faramir turned to see exactly what the creature was talking about, apparently not having heard Elrond’s earlier words, nor their arrival, and outright flinched at seeing their stares. He also flushed. “No, Sarisk, you can’t eat the king, nor the Lord of Imlardis.”

The creature stood, revealing its full height, and Aragorn wondered how it could have gotten into the tower, and why it stayed. Faramir did not seem afraid of the creature, but he wouldn’t have expected him capable of taming such a creature. He wasn’t sure anyone was capable of such a feat, and yet  _ Sarisk,  _ as Faramir had called it, did not seem inclined towards violence. Yet.

Faramir scrambled to hang onto her scales, dropping the brush down her back as she began walking towards him and Elrond, and shifting her wings in a way he suspected was intended to intimidate, rather than an outright threat, as her speed did not indicate that it was entirely a threat.

“Ah, of course not.” She seemed to sniff for his and Elrond’s scents, and then she performed it again. “I understand. It would be… politically unwise… to eat your sire, and his adopted sire.”

Faramir gasped, and lost the grip he was holding on the dragon’s scales. “Sarisk! You must be mistaken!”

“These two will treat you better than your not sire, or I will eat them.”

“You can’t threaten them! Sarisk, can’t you see how well armed they are?! They could hurt you!”

A rumble came from the creature’s chest, and it took Aragorn a moment to realize that it was laughing. “They won’t hurt me, young hatchling.”

Aragorn hadn’t decided one way or the other yet, but he also wasn’t going to act hastily. At the very least, he could do nothing before he found out exactly what it meant to Faramir and why it was here and whether or not it was a threat, which it didn’t seem to be. After all, Faramir would probably have the good sense not to be polishing the scales of something actively trying to eat him.

Then again, what did he know about Faramir.

He thought about some of the antics he got into as a child himself, and decided that Faramir would absolutely be the kind of individual to befriend and tame something even as it tried to eat him. He’d succeed, too, knowing that somehow, Faramir had already managed to befriend a  _ dragon _ .

“Do you hear that, Fara?” Sarisk asked. “I thought you said your hatch-mate wouldn’t be coming back.”

Aragorn turned, because he heard it too.

“Anborn! Get out of my way! My little brother is up there, and I can’t  _ believe  _ you allowed Aragorn and Elrond to pass!”

“You can’t go up there! Faramir’s going to be overwhelmed as it is!”

“My orders were for  _ nobody  _ to go up there! Faramir’s wyvern lives up there!”

“Boromir! What were you thinking?!”

“If those two hurt Faramir’s best friend I am never going to forgive you!”

During the course of the argument, of which the four sentients at the top of the tower could hear, Faramir had managed to drop from where he was hanging onto Sarisk’s neck onto his feet and proceeding to slip past Aragorn and Elrond, and bolt down the many flights of stairs faster than any human or elf had before.

Elrond was snickering beside him, so Aragorn glared at him. It was written all over the Elven lord’s face exactly what he thought of this situation. “I don’t want to hear it,” he sighed, knowing full well what his foster father was preparing to say, before starting down the stairs after Faramir.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Estel.”

“I know you, and I know that you were. Something about the trouble I caused as a child coming back tenfold, I believe.”

“It was only threefold, which you should know, considering how many times I had to lecture you on one thing or another.”

“Go look after Fara,” the creature that was apparently a wyvern and not actually a dragon, interrupted them. “I shall know if you do not.”

With that, Aragorn and Elrond headed down the stairs to find out what scene awaited them below.

They could hear Faramir shouting, especially when he must have gotten down enough of the flights of stairs to hear his brother even more clearly. There was enough echo to suggest that at least one person at the bottom was also running up the stairs.

Suddenly, there was a large crash that echoed up and down the tower, that had both Aragorn and Elrond sprinting to make sure that no one was hurt.

Halfway down the thirty flights of stairs, there was a true landing, and Faramir had knocked Boromir flat onto his back. It seemed that Anborn had been ahead of Boromir on the stairs, so Faramir had leapt clear over him.

"Bor," Faramir whimpered, clutching at his older brother's fine elven tunic and sobbing.

"Hey, little brother," Boromir soothed. He rocked Faramir gently, wrapping an arm around him to hold onto him while using his free hand to test for injuries. "It's okay, I'm right here."

Faramir continued sobbing.

Boromir continued examining Faramir for injuries. “And how is Sarisk doing these days? Did you have a nice visit up there?”

Faramir sobbed even harder, offering no answers to what had him so upset.

The eldest son of the late steward glared lightly at Aragorn and Elrond, who were standing just a few stairs up from the landing.

“Peace, Boromir. We exchanged no threats with the wyvern,” Elrond said. “I believe Faramir is out of sorts from her revelation, regarding his heritage?”

Boromir sighed, then nodded, and Aragorn wondered what Boromir would know about it, if anything. If he didn’t know that Faramir was in fact Aragorn’s son, not Denethor’s, he wondered how Boromir would react upon finding out, but it ended up not being relevant.

“I probably should have told him about that already. But it never seemed like the right time, and then I didn’t want to part ways with it, where it could have easily caused so much further harm.” He gently rubbed his little brother’s back. “It’s okay, Fara. Nothing bad is going to happen because of this. If anything, I think it’ll be good for you.”

If Faramir’s continued almost wailing was anything to go by, the young Steward did not seem inclined to believe it.

Boromir continued testing Faramir for injuries, and then winced when Faramir winced after applying pressure to his shoulder. “I highly doubt you wrenched your shoulder hurdling over Anborn, so what could have happened to it?”

Faramir did not seem particularly inclined to answer that question either.

Boromir studied his younger brother with concern. “Alright, up we get. I think it’s time for a nap.” He shifted carefully so that he could stand up as well as dragging Faramir up too, without hurting him if he’d done any damage to his legs with his stunt. “Have you slept at all this year?” he wondered, finally getting a good look at the bags under his eyes. “Or eaten?” he added, coming to the conclusion that Faramir was also definitely too light.

“He’s been especially stubborn as of late,” Anborn mumbled.

Aragorn wondered whether or not that was an exaggeration, but he had noticed Faramir’s inclinations to put off both food and sleep, and decided that Anborn probably knew what he was talking about.

With that, they headed down the 15 more flights of stairs, so that they could return to the main part of the castle.

* * *

Boromir knocked on the door he knew Aragorn and Elrond would be eating in, but he didn’t wait for an answer before entering. It had taken him far too long to get Faramir to settle into sleep, and he needed to know what was going on. What he had missed.

“Boromir,” Aragorn greeted.

He took a moment to study them. By the end of their journey together, and in the moments that he had spent believing he was about to die, he had come to know Aragorn pretty well, or at least, he liked to think that he had learned of his strength. He’d also recognized that if they all got through everything alive, that it would be only fitting for Aragorn to be king. Yet he had also known that Denethor would never willingly give up the power he believed himself to hold.

Faramir had. He’d heard that much, along with the message that Denethor had not survived the assault on Gondor, (though the details of his death had been entirely absent). He’d also heard that upon stepping down from his position to give way for the king, Aragorn had given it back to him.

Boromir wondered about that. There was no way Aragorn could have known anything about Faramir at that moment. Yet as a complete stranger, he’d shown more respect towards Faramir than Denethor had in his entire life.

“Is Faramir alright?” Aragorn asked.

Boromir shrugged. “I’m sure that he will be fine. I think he was just overwhelmed, on top of the part where he  _ apparently  _ hasn’t been eating or sleeping.”

“We’re working on the eating part,” Aragorn said. “I think the sleeping will come.”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “It hasn’t come in 17 years, why would it come now.” He took a seat across from them while they stared at him with puzzled expressions.

"How old is Faramir?" Aragorn asked, before Boromir could get to the reason he was here.

Boromir tilted his head. Time had seemed to pass differently in Lorien, but as he considered what day it was, he realized his own mistake. "I suppose I had forgotten his eighteenth birthday was ten days past.” He hadn’t even thought about what present he should get for Faramir this year, as he had been preoccupied with other matters. Maybe there was something in his traveling bag that would interest him. Faramir was always interested in stories about the elves. Maybe he had something from Rivendell that would do the trick.

Aragorn frowned, and to Boromir, the king just looked sad. “The coronation,” he said, after a moment. “Faramir’s eighteenth birthday was the day of the coronation.”

He wanted to be annoyed by that, but then he realized that maybe it was alright that the coronation was on Faramir’s birthday, because Faramir really did prefer for the attention to not be on him, and they could have a smaller celebration without all the commotion of something with courtly commitment. Besides, it didn't matter now. What was done, was done.

On that note… "You slept with my mother," he said, taking the seat across from Aragorn and Elrond. It wasn't an accusation, it was a statement of fact. Perhaps a little simplistic, as he understood there were extraneous circumstances to be considered, but it was the easiest way to get onto the same page. "She drugged you, and slept with you, and bore you an heir."

"She did," Aragorn agreed. "One I didn't know about until Arwen told me."

And Arwen had known… because elves were elves and they probably  _ all _ knew. "Faramir didn't know either." Was that a consolation? It didn't seem like much of a consolation. 

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Aragorn said, "What of Denethor?"

"He may or may not have known the specifics, but he knew Faramir wasn't his." He sighed. “When I was ten, Mother gave birth to a stillborn daughter. She barely survived, and never really recovered from it. The healers told her she wouldn’t survive another pregnancy, and Faramir was born so early the healer’s didn’t think he would make it either, and the number of times I saved him from Denethor’s attempts at murdering him, well, you get the picture..”

Aragorn nodded. He and Elrond both looked concerned at the implications, but Boromir was done covering up the sins of his own father. With another thought, he said, “I want to know what happened to Denethor. What Faramir won’t talk about. And I want to know what happened to all the rangers. Why are there only 4 left?”

The king sighed. “I don’t know what happened to Denethor, or what happened to Faramir. The rest of the rangers died attacking Osgiliath after they fled. My understanding is that Faramir led the charge of volunteers because Denethor ordered them to attack, even though none of them agreed that they could win the attack. Something happened after that, I think. Something dark. I wish I knew what.”

The door opened, and Anborn stepped into the room. “Faramir doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t need to know, but I’ll tell you. I think you need to hear it from me, so all the facts are straight.”

“Come join us,” Aragorn said.

Anborn took a seat beside Boromir. “Denethor never liked Faramir, but I’m not going to start there. After we fled Osgiliath due to it being overrun by the Uruk-hai, Denethor found out that Faramir had released Frodo and Sam with the Ring to carry out their quest to see it destroyed, and he was not pleased.”

Boromir inhaled sharply. Denethor would not have reacted well. Not at all. He could think of all manners of punishment Denethor might have enacted on him, and there would have been few both willing and capable of seeing him stopped. But his little brother was alive, and had seemed for the most part uninjured, so it couldn’t have ended  _ too  _ badly. Then again, that wasn’t saying much.

“He ordered Faramir to lead an assault on Osgiliath, after harassing him about all manner of things, including his desires, both that he had died in your place, as well as suggesting he did not want Faramir to return alive.”

Unfortunately, that sounded exactly like Denethor. 

Both Aragorn and Elrond seemed to be stewing in their anger at such a revelation, but Boromir was just glad that Denethor was gone, and that whatever had happened, he couldn’t hurt Faramir ever again.

“Some of us were able to retreat after the attack, and we were able to get Faramir home, but he was stricken with the Black Breath. Pippin determined that Faramir was still alive, but he was unconscious and unstirring. Denethor, believing him to be dead, had a pyre built in the Hallows, and he tried to set it on fire with himself and Faramir on it. Beregond stepped in to stop him, but not without drawing blood, which is treason.”

“Is that why Faramir insisted I make Beregond the captain of his guard?” Aragorn asked.

Anborn nodded. “None would dare argue with your public announcement of that, even if there are those who would prefer to see him executed for his actions.”

Boromir knew that Anborn was right, but before he could think to protest that it was wrong, Aragorn did it for him. “But Denethor was about to murder Faramir! Beregond wasn’t the one committing treason!”

Anborn smirked. “I think Gondor is going to like having a king.”


End file.
